Where You and I Collide
by Hearts of Eternity
Summary: Separately, Jazz and Prowl are like forces of nature- they are uncompromising and uncontrollable. But what becomes of their natures when these two unstoppable forces collide? Will one break the other, or will they both be stronger for it?
1. Chapter 1

Jazz and Prowl are a pair unlike any other. There is a quality about them that captures interest and draws on curiosity; they are opposing balance, as yin and yang, yet they are synchronous with each other as the wheels of fate are with the machinations of destiny. But you already know all this, do you not? You know the facets of Jazz and Prowl's relationship, the intricacies and puzzles, are not entirely normal, but they wholly natural. Like forces of nature that cannot be captured or controlled.

From the rousing success of _Take Hold of My Spinning World_, I decided to indulge further into the complicated world of a pair of _very_ complicated mechs. Since I doubt I will be alone in this indulgence, I welcome you all to sit, read, and indulge with me.

Reviews are inspiration and love, my friends. :)

**Chapter 1**

"_We create our fate every day we live." _–Henry Miller

"Do you have him?!"

"Yes! Yes! Just run for it! The ship's waiting!"

"Blue, lay down some cover fire!"

They ran for their lives, stumbling across the pockmarked outer perimeter of the Decepticon stronghold Straxis. In the darkness of the shattered night, turbines whined to life, a stealth ship unveiling. Engines suddenly roared, a hatch dropping to admit the small group of Autobots. Their target mech was tossed on board first, followed quickly by a dart of silver that had been at his side from the moment they both exited the Decepticon compound.

"Close the hatch! Get off the ground!" roared the leader, a mech known as Hardtop.

With the order ringing loud over the sound of gunfire, the pilot whooped an affirmative. In the span of a single sparkbeat, their ship was thrown into the sky. Metal screamed, bulkheads rattled; their sudden assent threatened to rip the ship apart, with only the skill of the pilot keeping them together. Stealth engines did nothing to drown out the barrage of Decepticon firepower detonating across the hull. The unnatural scream of metal being ripped apart erupted from the outside as a sharp wingspire ripped through the armour of the ship.

"Seekers!" someone screamed.

Immediately, anti-aircraft missiles were deployed. Alien whistling drowned out the night, followed by the explosive roar of several megatons of power detonating the sky. One by one, the Seekers fell from their flight paths, spiralling for Cybertron's surface. As their dying cries fell from the sky, the Autobots gathered in the cargo hold sighed collectively. A rescue mission well done; they had their mech and there were no casualties whatsoever. No Autobot casualties, anyways.

Hardtop glanced around with a hard optic, touching a hand to his audio as he remotely connected to the ship's communications.

"We have him," he transmitted, his gaze straying to the storm-grey mech freshly procured from Decepticon clutches. In the half-light, the red chevron crowning his dark head glinted in reassurance of his living presence.

'_Good,' _came the curt reply. _'Are the Decepticons in pursuit?' _

"Negative. We shook 'em."

'_In that case, return to base as soon as possible. Iacon out.'_

The channel was cut without further word. It was nothing personal; with a ship in the heart of enemy territory and the risk of Soundwave being near, they had to keep transmissions as short as possible.

With the message of a successful mission relayed, the Autobots sagged, nodding to themselves. There were no more Decepticons on the radar to worry about. Except one.

Jazz made himself comfortable against the hull of the cargo hold, preparing to settle in for the flight that would undoubtedly take him to Iacon. The spark of Autobot power. Shifting one way, then the other, he cracked a kink in his shoulders and then relaxed. What might have looked like thoughtless movement to some was actually the trained articulation of a dangerous predator. Hidden behind his visor, his optics scoured the Autobots assembled and determined their worth and capabilities from their frames, decals, and postures. In a matter of astroseconds, he surmised the most vulnerable places on their armour and formulated the best plan of attack to exploit those weaknesses as quickly as possible. For his own amusement, he even decided how long it would take him to kill the entire assembly before the pilot even noticed something was amiss; 14.2 astroseconds. Sadly, by that time, the pilot would be dead, as well.

But even knowing how to escape didn't tell him why he was there in the first place. Why the pit did he follow that stupid Autobot out? What the pit had he been thinking when he jumped aboard? Without an answer to _why_, he was left stranded. Confused. He could not make sense of the unnamed force that had brought him to this point; a hot, swirling, wild feeling in his chassis that brought his energon to life, making it boil, sing. What the pit did he think he was doing, a Decepticon, on a ship full of cowering Autobots?

Had he finally gone insane?

A memory file opened at random, playing back the very words a particular Autobot prisoner had said to him:

"_You truly are as deluded as they say." _

Yes. Yes, he was obviously deluded now. No question about it; he had lost his mind. There was no other explanation for why the pit he was there.

There was no control here, no agendas, no vendettas; he was free-styling through his own suicidal insanity.

Of course, that didn't mean he was scared of what was becoming of his world. Whirling off its axis, spinning free into space, uncontrollable as it spiralled out of his hands- terrifying, but he didn't dare fear it. No, he refused to fear it. He could escape at any time. He was free to do whatever he wanted, when he wanted, and however way he wanted to do it. He was Jazz, after all. He was always several steps ahead of everyone. Crazy or not, he was still better than an Autobot.

...right?

But still, the question bothered him: _Why? Why? Why?_ And yet the answer was staring him in the faceplate. In fact, it had not _stopped_ staring at him from the moment the hatch had sealed.

'_Damn you, ya fraggin' Autobot.'_

Despite injuries festering old or bleeding fresh, the mech stared with the same cold calculation in his optics that had first caught Jazz's attention. Even as he complied with the young medic tending to him, he never allowed himself to be distracted from the Decepticon in his presence. Not that the others were exactly lounging like cybercats, but this particular Autobot's attention was single-minded, disturbingly intense. For a single moment, Jazz mused that he could probably cut the mech's head off and he would still stare at him. He was the one mech in the bay Jazz couldn't read, couldn't gauge. He was the one and only mech to ever cause Jazz to _fail_ at something. Damn if the taste wasn't still bitter.

Such an innocuous mech. One look at him basically summed him up. An average mech frame, Simfur design. Plain storm-grey paint lay in patches across battered armour, his old Security Response decals faded next to his Autobot insignia. He was stripped to the wires from his incarceration, currently being patched back together by the field medic of the rescue team. There was nothing specially designed about him, not even his faceplate. Pretty much the generic assembly-line frame that Security Response and other organizations used. Though this mech's carved features stood out strikingly against his stoic expression; handsome in a classic sort of way. It was enough to make anyone look twice. One would never imagine that a mind so potently dangerous lay locked away behind such unassuming ice-blue optics. It was Jazz's own folly that he had underestimated the mech. Always being quicker, faster, and more clever than everyone else around him had taken its ultimate toll on his psyche. He had allowed himself to become ensnared in the unintentional trap that was the Autobot's mind.

With his world now bent on the axis and flung into the wilds of the unpredictable and uncontrollable, Jazz found himself disturbingly intrigued by the unreadable, unbreakable Autobot.

_Prowl_, he reminded himself. Prowl was his designation.

Leaning forward, he made sure to have optic contact with the tactician before he spoke. Despite having his visor lowered, Prowl did not appear to have an issue with piercing the crystalline cover and sending him a stark glare that struck Jazz to the core.

"Am Ah yer prisoner?"

As expected, the other Autobots shifted nervously, each one of them disgustingly aware of the amount of danger they were in. They knew exactly who he was Jazz: one of the most lethal Decepticons Megatron had at his disposal. Clever, quick, and unpredictable, he was easily on par with the Seekers or Shockwave when it came to the damage he was capable of. One wrong move and they'd all be dead.

Prowl did not hesitate to answer. "Until we can determine what to do with you, yes, you are our prisoner."

"Alrigh', just wonderin'." Satisfied with the answer, the silver mech leaned back once more.

Once again, the Autobots shifted uneasily. There was no way for them to gauge the mech. He was an enigma. He had been the one to contact them in order to formulate the escape plan; he had been the one to risk the most to get Prowl out of the compound. For all they knew, the saboteur's seemingly benign gestures could all be part of an elaborate trap, or else this fiasco was for his own damned amusement. It was hard to decide which was more dangerous.

One young bot looked like he was having trouble keeping quiet for so long. His too-readable optics kept glancing between Jazz and Prowl, picking up on the tension arcing between them as they continued to glare. He fiddled with a pair of stasis cuffs, looking to Prowl instead of his team leader.

"Shouldn't we...?" he held up the cuffs.

The gesture was ridiculously quaint, so much so that Jazz couldn't help but laugh. "_Cute_, but can we skip the formalities? We all know Ah'll be out o' those cuffs before ya even lock 'em in place."

"You're outnumbered, Decepticon," Hardtop growled, clearly hoping to sound threatening with the numbers to back him up.

"An' yer outclassed," Jazz countered, smirking.

Blue cringed away, desperately searching Prowl's faceplate for an answer. "Sir...?"

A weak hand waved dismissively. "Stand down, Bluestreak. He's not going to do anything," Prowl assured tonelessly, still refusing to blink or break his stare with Jazz.

Something akin to surprise hit the 'Con, not expecting such a cut-and-dry statement. It was not every orn that a mech, let alone an _Autobot_, attempted to predict his agendas, especially with such conviction. His faceplate did well to reveal nothing.

"Yer rather confident with that assumption, aren't ya, _Prowl_?" he purred lowly, smirking. His visor flashed a smouldering red, clearly making the rest of the team far more uncomfortable than they already were.

Prowl's glacial expression did not waver, becoming a fixation as the rest of the cargo hold blurred into the background. He was a fascination incapable of being denied.

"I assume nothing, _Jazz,_" he said, a mere statement of fact. A lot more was being said between their optics, unreadable icy-blue to enigmatic ember-red; they were speaking volumes in silence. "I _know_ you will do nothing."

Something more than a smirk pulled at Jazz's mouthplates, a touch of poison crossing his handsome features. "Is that so?"

"Yes."

Silence reigned in the hold as their war of wills raged. Neither was about to give in. Without warning, the airship hit turbulence. Jazz blinked, activating his magnetic fields to secure himself to the wall. Prowl grunted, flinching when the medic's hands jarred him. Their battle ended without word or victor.

With a Decepticon on board, no one felt at ease enough to speak. They didn't even dare open private channels between one another for fear of what the silver bot was capable of hacking into. It was a long flight back to Iacon, one in which not a sound was made aside from the drone of the engines and the occasional word from the pilot. It was a new record of silence for Bluestreak, though no one was in the mood to point it out. By the time their ship was docking in the safe harbour of Iacon's hangar, the Autobots sent as Prowl's retrieval group had gravitated into the protection of the tactician's general vicinity. A wide berth was given to Jazz at the back of the hold.

A sharp jerk rattled the bulkheads as docking arms locked onto the hull. Engines whined down, draining the subtle hum of life from the ship. Through the reinforced metal, familiar sounds of home drifted through, bringing an ease to the Autobots they had not felt since leaving on their mission. Jazz, on the other hand, could only listen to the sounds of the enemy as the ship was further secured into the spark of Iacon. There was no comfort for him to garner. Interestingly enough, he had the urge to see the reaction home would bring to Prowl, only to find there was no change at all. No surprise there; pre-programs built for Security Response, especially tactical advisors, were created without emotion. It was obvious that Prowl had never sought to expand his emotional repertoire, either.

As if sensing Jazz's gaze, the storm-grey mech turned a fraction and regarded him coldly. There was the distinct feeling of being measured, as if trying to gauge the worth of his reactions. A shot of annoyance lanced through the saboteur when Prowl looked away, seemingly coming to a satisfactory conclusion. Registering himself as annoyed, Jazz was quick to tamp down on the emotion, disturbed to feel out of place at all. Who the pit did this Prowl think he was, anyways? Some freak of nature?

"Bluestreak, lower the hatch," Prowl ordered hoarsely, which the little grey mech was quick to follow. There was a pneumatic hiss, and then the stark lights of the hangar flooded the cargo hold.

On an unspoken order, the rescue team disembarked quickly. The pilot jumped from the cockpit instead of making his way out the hatch, having no desire to risk his life walking passed Jazz. Only the medic lingered, looking to Prowl enquiringly.

"Sir, do you need help down?" he asked, optics darting unsurely from Jazz and back again. It was obvious he was hoping Prowl did not require assistance.

Noting the mech's discomfort, Prowl waved him off. "Go, First Aid. I can handle myself."

"Alright..." With one last nervous glance in the Decepticon's direction, First Aid was down the ramp and scampering to inform his CMO of Prowl's condition.

It took a great effort for Prowl to rise from his seat, his frame having seized from the long flight. The most logical course of action to deal with the physical discomfort was to turn off his neural relays, which he had done the orn he had been captured by the Decepticons. Even with only his pressure sensor grid active, forcing his frame to move despite itself was troublesome. With an unpredictable Decepticon looming in the back of the hold, he couldn't afford to appear weak. When he came to stand at the hatch entrance, he turned a cool gaze on Jazz, who had not moved since they docked.

"Are you coming?"

Jazz returned Prowl's stare with a flash of his visor, mouthplates set in a crooked half-smile. "Ah don't suppose Ah have a choice, now do Ah?"

Prowl's right optic ridge rose. "There is always a choice. You made the choice to come with me, did you not?"

Oh yeah, he _did_ make that choice, didn't he? One of the first truly spontaneous things he had ever done in his entire life! Being here was of his spark's choice, not his processor's.

"It wasn't much o' a choice."

"But it was yours to make, and now you are here. For sparing my life and orchestrating my release, you are essentially an Autobot now." So matter-of-fact, so coldly, if not naively, logical; even as a free mech, Prowl did not cease to entertain and elude him. It was enough to make Jazz chuckle as he forced himself to rise.

"Ah wouldn't go that far," he intoned.

Seeing that Jazz was now on his feet, Prowl began to limp his way down the ramp. "You are no longer welcomed by the Decepticons as a consequence of your aid to me, and you accepted my invitation to assist the Autobots. What am I to consider you, if not an ally?"

With frighteningly fluid grace, Jazz was at his shoulder. The moment he made his appearance on the ramp, all activity in the hangar halted. He was instantly recognized, and security teams were immediately alerted and mobilized. The activity of the hangar was ignored as Jazz leaned up to be nearly on par with Prowl.

"Consider me nothin' ta ya," he growled.

"Oh?"

Just the thought of being considered an ally to anyone, it left the saboteur cold inside. He didn't know what to do with trust, other than destroy it. There was no trust in his world; he was supposed to be better, smarter, quicker than everyone else. All other bots were beneath him. He could only conclude that Prowl was trying to manipulate him, control him, keep him off balance, and doing a good job at it. That only piqued him more.

"Ah'm still as dangerous as the first orn Ah walked inta yer interrogation room."

As they neared the end of the ramp, Prowl's last remaining dregs of strength left him, his limping gait giving out into a full-out stumble. A clawed hand shot out without thought, grasping the mech's arm to steady him. As soon as he realized what he was doing, Jazz jerked away. Prowl's gaze lingered on the spot where the Decepticon's hand had touched him, and then slid to the 'Con himself.

"You say you are dangerous, Jazz, but your actions speak otherwise."

Suddenly a very large cannon was thrust between them as a burly black mech interceded, placing himself firmly between Prowl and Jazz.

"Ironhide," Prowl greeted tonelessly. Another mech came up behind the first, a dusky-yellow medic cursing a wild streak as he went about assessing damages and field repairs. "Ratchet."

"_Prowl,_" Ironhide spat, practically snarling the designation. His glare was saved only for Jazz, as was the super-heated plasma churning in the barrel of his cannon. "What the frag were you thinking allowing this piece of slag in here? Have you completely lost your Primus-damned mind?"

"I have not lost my faculties yet," Prowl responded, a scowl suddenly taking his faceplate.

"Then what is the meaning of this? He's not even in stasis cuffs, for frag's sake!"

Jazz tipped his head back, regarding the Autobot weapons specialist with a taunting smirk. "Mah, mah, if it isn't the infamous Ironhide and his cannons. Yer a tad less impressive than Ah thought ya'd be."

Deep-set optics flashed, a deep rumbling growl rattling through the mech. "Give me a reason, you slimy little pit-spawn, and I'll smear you into the ground."

"Now, now, is that any way ta treat a guest? Ah'm here on invitation, after all." A fresh bout of satisfaction touched him as he watched a flash of lurid rage cross the black mech's faceplate. Apparently, he didn't get the memo. It only got better as the news was confirmed.

"He is right, Ironhide. He is here on my invitation," Prowl intoned, and then cried out involuntarily as Ratchet wrenched something inside his back.

"You did no such thing!" howled the CMO, bristling at the mere idea.

"I did, and he is here. He is a willing prisoner until we know what to do with him." The tactician's optics rested on Ironhide's back. "You may lower your weapons."

"The pit will rust over first," was the snarled reply.

Ratchet barely even acknowledged Jazz's presence as he raged over Prowl. "This is one of the most ridiculous, half-bit, insane things you have ever done! I won't be surprised if Prime decides to throw you in the brig for this!"

"Doubtful. Optimus Prime has been known to show reason and mercy on more than one occasion. I am unlikely to be punished for my actions," the tactician countered, cringing when something painful was once again twisted mercilessly in his back.

Ironhide's cannons loomed ever closer to Jazz's head as he spoke. Several other security officers were closing in. "You take too many liberties with your new position as tactical commander," he growled. "You think you know everything, but you don't know slag."

With no feelings to hurt, Prowl was hardly offended. "I know enough to make my own calls."

"Says the mech we just busted out of captivity," Ironhide sneered.

Jazz's visor flashed. "Correction, _Ah_ busted him out. Y'all just collected on him." He slid out from under Ironhide's cannon, brushing imaginary dust from his armour. "Ah gotta say, it's been a slice, but any more of the warm fuzzies an' Ah'm gonna purge." He began to make his way to the exit of the hangar, swaggering with the nonchalance of a mech who owned the place.

"Where the pit do you think you're going?" Ironhide demanded.

"Ta the brig," came the reply, tossed evenly over the mech's shoulder. "While y'all were busy with yer little reunion, Ah hacked Iacon's mainframe and downloaded its schematics. Since no one else looks ta be in a hurry, Ah might as well take mahself there." He made it to the exit without a single shot being fired. Autobots in his way quickly scattered without even reaching for their weapons. It was pathetic, really. At least the Decepticons would have tried to shoot him if he attempted to pull the same slag.

With an entire hangar worth of enemies glaring down his back, Jazz tossed a smirk over his shoulder, locking optics with only Prowl. "Don't bother sendin' an escort, either. Ah'll find mah own way down."


	2. Chapter 2

Whoa. That is all I have to say to the response to the last chapter- it both shocked and awed me in such a way that I was stunned for many days after. The encouragement and enthusiasm you've all shown for this pairing, not to mention this particular version that I'm concocting, has been most welcome! I wish I could thank all of you personally, perhaps give a hug or two, but since this is the internet and there is the possibly that I am a crazed madwoman with chopped up bodies hiding in my basement, we shall leave the physical meetings and hugs for another time. I hope you can all make due with my most sincere cyber-thanks and some tight cosmic-hugs. Thank you so much to each and every single one of my reviewers, **Shizuka Taiyou, Luck-of-the-Irishman, agent-doo, Flight of Insanity, Ragnarok347, Independent C, cmdrtekk, Blu-Calling, Alangrieal, Elita One, Optimus Bob, Faecat, Chloo, sacred histories, lady tecuma, CuriousDreamWeaver, FunkyFish1991, last ditch, Refracted Imagination, Cynthia, Katherine, Mirage Shinkiro, Peacewish, renegadewriter8, Anon.**, and **Lecidre**~ To each of you, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

I realize that this is going to be my last post of the year, or the first post of the new year depending on where you are in the world, so in that case, I want to wish everyone luck, love, and happiness in the New Year! ^_^

Read & Review, my friends. I look forward to your thoughts~*

**Chapter 2**

Ratchet was still on a tangent by the time Prowl was guided safely into the med bay, and the medic miraculously was still going strong a joor later. Thankfully, Prowl knew of ways of deal with Ratchet and his tirades. He shut down his audios and merely nodded or grunted when it seemed like Ratchet was looking for an answer for whatever tangent he was currently on. Prowl's time in captivity with the Decepticons had allowed him to perfect the technique.

Another technique Prowl had perfected during incarceration was withstanding discomfort. He daren't turn his neural relays back on yet, but the pressure ratchet was exerting on his pressure sensor grid was borderline hostile. Despite the fact that the medic was trying to _fix_ him, the process was very much like surviving physical torture. The vehemence with which Ratchet was treating Prowl's injuries was most likely a form a punishment for the foolhardy invitation Prowl had left open for Jazz.

Quite suddenly, the tactician had a very bright light shining in his optics. He blinked dazedly, jerking back. Ratchet was there, too close for comfort, examining him through narrowed optics. Prowl belatedly realized that he was being spoken to directly, rather than being ranted at, so he turned on his audios-

"-haven't said a word edgewise since you were brought in here. I can only imagine what kind of damages your processors have undergone. It will probably take orns to get them sorted out…" A scanned passed over Prowl. "No obvious damages to your vocal processor, or your audios… You spoke just fine in the hangar… Lucid, direct, aware…" Ratchet turned sharply to First Aid, who was seeing to a patient in for a minor wound won from a sparring match. "Did he present any obvious trauma while you had him in the ship?"

"Loads," First Aid replied. "But I patched the worst up with temp plating-."

"Not _physical_," Ratchet injected impatiently. "_Mental_. Did his behaviour seem off?"

First Aid blinked, peering between Prowl and Ratchet. "No, he seemed relatively fine and lucid throughout the flight. I'd say he was the same old Prowl he's always been- saner than any other mech on the ship, that's for sure."

Prowl smirked mutedly, but the movement was caught by Ratchet's trained optics.

"Ah, so now you're listening," he grumped.

Prowl turned his optics up, casting his faceplate into an emotionless mask. "My apologies. I… turned off my audios."

There was a shadow of annoyance across Ratchet's faceplate, but it was quickly replaced by self-chastisement, and then understanding. He relaxed his stance somewhat, crossing his arms across his chassis. "I'm probably the last mech you want to hear from after being in Straxis for so long. I'm not helping your condition, am I?"

"Your repairs are perfectly adequate, if not a little more painful than usual."

The medic made a snorting sound. "Sometimes I hope that if I make the experience uncomfortable enough, it would be enough for some to wise up and not want to repeat it."

Knowing that Ratchet was not talking about him specifically, Prowl nonetheless said, "I'll be sure to try harder in the future not to become a prisoner of war."

That was enough to grant a wry smile on the dusky-yellow mech's faceplate. "I can never tell if you're trying to have a sense of humour or not when you say things like that."

The tactician merely shrugged. "I was not programmed with a sense of humour."

With a shake of his head, Ratchet returned to his repairs. This time around, he was infinitely gentler and refrained from ranting too much. As soon as First Aid was done with his rounds checking the status of one unfortunate fellow floating in a CR chamber in the ICU, he came in to assist with whatever he could. They didn't bother to make much conversation after that initial exchange.

Prowl was curious as to what had happened to the Decepticon known as Jazz, and a small part of him wondered if the saboteur had made it down to the brig at all or if he was shot dead before he got there, but he knew better than to show any interest in the mech. While Ratchet may have been going easier on him, that didn't mean he wasn't being watched by diamond-sharp optics for any sign of weakness or instability. It was a little too much like being back in interrogation, but even the worst Decepticon treatment would seem like a blessing compared to the wrath of Ratchet should the medic suspect anything.

"Optimus will be in soon to speak with you," Ratchet finally said as he and First Aid finished what they could, helping to ease Prowl back onto the birth so he could lay comfortably.

"No doubt he is curious of my recent actions," Prowl stated.

"I disconnected your communications, but it's been all over the comm. that Jazz is in Iacon, and that you were the one to bring him here. The base is practically in lockdown now. Not to mention Ironhide's been rather _upset_ for the past couple of joors."

Prowl made an annoyed noise. "So it can be assumed that Optimus has been with Ironhide trying to negotiate not shooting our prisoner."

Ratchet gave a curt nod. "For once, I agree with Ironhide's methods. A 'Con that dangerous shouldn't be allowed alive in Iacon, even if he is in the brig."

That admittance was a small comfort to Prowl- not that Ratchet wanted Jazz dead, but that Jazz had made it to the brig without causing further pandemonium. Knowing that the Decepticon had kept his word and walked himself to the brig instead of instigating a riot of some sort was a relief. Perhaps Jazz had what it took to be an Autobot after all? Or was Prowl simply getting ahead of himself? Most definitely getting ahead of himself- one promise kept meant nothing.

The medic continued haughtily. "I can make excuses for your actions until the sky falls down, but that doesn't change the fact that he's here and we're all at risk because of it."

"He saved my life."

Ratchet shook his head. "Not that I don't mind having you back, Prowl, but even you have to be suspicious of the reasons behind his actions."

Prowl fixed the medic with a flat stare, one that every pre-program lacking emotions had by default- emotionless and unnervingly blank. "I _am_ suspicious of him. I would not be the head advisor of the Tactical Division if I was not. The difference between my suspicions and yours, Ratchet, is that I'm not afraid of them."

A nerve had been hit with the words, causing the CMO to bristle. First Aid laid a hand to his mentor's arm before anything could be said that everyone would regret in the morning.

"I think it would be wise if Ratchet and I went down to the labs to see if Wheeljack has spare armour parts for you. If not, he'll just have to build them. We'll be going, right now. Come on, Ratchet…"

The little red bot started to shoo Ratchet out the door, but the CMO stopped dead in his tracks before he could be forced out. A strict finger was pointed threateningly in Prowl's direction.

"Don't you even dare do anything stupid while I'm gone; if I find out you dragged Smokescreen out of his shift to get caught up on your work, I'll dismantle you. You're on leave until I say you're fit to work again." First Aid made an impatient noise, motioning pointedly to the door. Ratchet glared down his olfactory sensor casing at the bot until he backed down, then that glare was turned back to Prowl. "And don't think you've gotten away with turning off your emotional center."

Prowl went rigid.

"Yes, that's right. Just because I haven't checked in your head yet doesn't mean I don't know the signs. As soon as you're done with Optimus, I'm turning it back on."

A scowl marred Prowl's faceplate. "That's unnecessary-."

"The pit is it. You've had it off for too long already. Any longer and the backlash might put you in stasis." With that, Ratchet slid from the med bay, leaving Prowl to himself.

There was no point in cursing after the mech, no matter how great a threat Ratchet held over his head. Turning his emotional center back on was a necessary evil, no matter how much Prowl detested the idea. As inexperienced with his emotions as he was, he couldn't just shove them away. He couldn't ignore them. Couldn't delete them. There was the blessed option of turning them off, but it only lasted for a little while, a few orns at best, and then he had to turn it back on. The backlash usually made him sick, sometimes enough to incapacitate him. During his imprisonment with the Decepticons, there hadn't been a chance to turn his emotional center back on to relieve the pressure. He couldn't risk that vulnerability. It was going to be a painful glitch switching it back on.

He absolutely _despised_ his damn weakness.

Luckily, he didn't have long to ruminate over his pre-programmed shortcomings. The door hissed open at the far end of the med bay and in popped a familiar head. Prowl quirked an optic ridge.

"Ratchet said you were on duty," he said.

Smokescreen slid into the room, grinning cheekily. "Sure, I'm on duty, but it's not like anyone's going to miss me. All I was doing was reports anyways." He wandered through the bay to his commander's side, propping his hip against the berth. Despite such an easy smile on his faceplate, Smokescreen's optics were sharp and trained as they looked Prowl over. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You're lying."

Prowl spared a moment to stare down his second in command. "I will be fine," he amended.

Smokescreen nodded. "Good. I don't like your job- I'd rather stay second in command any orn. There's way too much work involved being you."

"You will have to deal with it until Ratchet deems me fit for work again."

The dark-blue tactician shrugged. "Meh, just so long as you're here and you're okay, I'm good." He clapped a hand over Prowl's shoulder. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright, you know? It's not every orn that a mech gets carted off to Straxis and comes back with friends."

Prowl considered his fellow Autobot for a moment, then said, "You're referring to Jazz."

"Damn straight I am." There was an air of indignity in Smokescreen's tone.

Prowl's optics narrowed slightly. "I'm going to be defending myself endlessly over him, aren't I?"

Smokescreen finally dropped his smile for a serious frown. "There ain't no way you're escaping this one, commander. Your tactical evaluations of situations have always been bang on, and no one is going to deny that you're a damn brilliant tactical commander for this unit, but you're still pretty new to the position. Bots are still getting used to you. Suddenly inviting a Decepticon into the spark of Iacon is _not_ going to help things."

"How many are questioning my sanity?" Not the usual kind of question a bot would ask, but when taking the Autobots' tendency for histrionics into account…

"That's hard to say," Smokescreen shrugged. "The higher-ups don't know what to make of it. You're too new for them to know yet, let alone trust, but they're all putting on brave fronts for their divisions. A lot are making excuses, saying you're not in your right mind, that you've been tortured and Ratchet needs to reprogram you. Whatever kind of slag works for them."

"What have you told the rest of the Tactical Division?"

"The truth," Smokescreen replied simply. "That you're a damned pain in the aft, but no Decepticon is going to break you that easily. If anything, _I_ trust you. You've always known what you were doing."

Prowl risked a smirk. "Your confidence is encouraging."

"It helps when we're from the same Security Response precinct," the mech said with a laugh.

"I fear to think what the rest of the Autobots think of me." No, without his emotional center, Prowl felt no fear, but the turn of phrase felt appropriate for the situation. Surely he was impatient to know what his status was with the rest of the Autobots as a whole.

Smokescreen wrinkled his olfactory sensor casing. "It's 50/50- some still think you're a hard aft, and others think you're damn nuts."

Prowl sighed. "Lovely."

"I'm guessing Sideswipe passing it around that you came off the rescue ship a shaking, gibbering mess isn't helping things," Smokescreen intoned lightly.

At that, Prowl's optics narrowed. "No, I wouldn't suppose it would." Damn that little pit-spawned troublemaker. Not one orn went by when he wasn't causing strife for someone! "When you see him, would you send him my way? I would love to have a talk with him."

"No prob." He checked his chronometer, making a noise of annoyance. "I best be getting back to the reports, Prowl. They can only lay around for so long until they start multiplying."

"Of course."

Smokescreen reached out, both hands clasping Prowl's shoulders. He levelled his optics with his commander's. "I want you to know that I'm glad you're back. Not just 'cause you're my commander, either. You're a good friend of mine. It's real good that we didn't have to say goodbye to yet another one of our own."

Had Prowl's emotional center been turned on, he would have been touched by such a sentiment. As it was, he analyzed Smokescreen's words and determined that there was little more he could say in reply. He grasped the mech's hands and gave them a firm squeeze to convey that he understood and accepted what his subordinate was saying. One did not need to have emotions to know that being among comrades was better than being among the enemy.

Letting his hands slide away, Smokescreen straightened up and glanced to the door. "Speedy recovery, sir," he said, quirking one last smile before making his way back out the med bay.

By some perfectly timed coincidence of the universe, the doors slid open just as soon as they snapped closed on Smokescreen's aft, this time admitting the very recognizable figure of Optimus Prime himself. Ironhide could be seen glowering right behind him. Smokescreen scooted warily around the weapons specialist, wisely giving him a wide berth. Thankfully, Ironhide had had enough of Prowl from earlier, choosing to stay in the hall while the Prime had his talk with the tactician.

Prowl moved to bow his greetings, only to be waved off.

"There's no need for such a formality at the moment. You've been through enough without adding to it," the Prime said, gentle and commanding at the same time.

Prowl straightened with some effort, only to find that Optimus had come forward to help. As subtly as he could, he tried to ease out of the Prime's hands, finding it inappropriate for a bot of such high-regard to be assisting someone such as himself, tactical advisor or not. Optimus, unfortunately, took the shying as a silent request not to be touched. He backed off respectfully.

"My apologies," he said quietly. "After such an ordeal, I doubt that you would want much physical contact, no?"

Prowl said nothing, merely stared with a blank expression. He waited for the Prime to say something of significance. He waited to be questioned of his mental faculties and of his decision to bring Jazz to base.

Seemingly unnerved, Optimus backed up until he decided there was an appropriate distance between them, and then he sat down on the berth nearest him, which just so happened to be across the aisle. A gift the Prime had that would always impress Prowl was his ability to match the stare of any mech, no matter how blank, cruel, or condescending, and yet Optimus's optics always remained the same deep, unfathomable pools of blue they always were. It was Prowl who was forced to back down, submitting to both rank and the powerful presence of Optimus Prime.

"You are a rather unique bot, Prowl," Optimus commented as soon as he saw Prowl's frame relax into submission.

"I beg to differ, Prime," the tactician replied quietly. "I was one of five brought online for my precinct on the same orn; all of us had the same frame, and our programming was relatively unvaried. I am anything but unique."

Somehow, the information caused the Prime to chuckle. "If you were not so unique in your abilities, Prowl, you would not have been appointed as commander of your division." He leaned forward minutely, his deep-blue optics watching Prowl as if he could see straight through him right to the spark. "Not many can claim to do what you did."

"Survive Decepticon interrogation techniques?"

"No, befriend a Decepticon."

Prowl's optics flashed as he registered surprise in himself. "I have done no such thing, sir," he automatically refuted.

Optimus considered his words for a moment, and then shook his head slowly. "Perhaps _befriend_ is too strong a word."

"I intrigue him," Prowl intoned dutifully.

"I have no doubt," Optimus replied.

Such a strange statement only served to confuse Prowl. His confusion must have shown, or perhaps the Prime was just so in tune with others that he instinctively sensed the discomfort, because he immediately offered further words.

"Like I said, Prowl, you are a very unique individual. Not many are able to resist a mech of Jazz's reputed calibre to the level that you have, especially to do so and survive." There was a definite air of pride in Optimus's words, but then his optics turned curious. "It is even rarer still for a mech to become a prisoner and have his captor also be his rescuer."

"As I've said, I somehow became a fixation of intrigue to Jazz," Prowl stated. "You will read all of my experience in my report."

Optimus inclined his head, a small ghost of a smile curving his mouthplates. "Tell me now."

Obeying the order, Prowl dutifully paraphrased his experience. "My survival is greatly in debt to the unpredictable and unstable nature of the mech. He became irrationally fixated on his inability to break me, and I believe he saw it as a 'waste' to have a challenge such as myself destroyed. He orchestrated my rescue in order to preserve the chance to break me in the future."

"I see." Optimus leaned back, resting his weight on his spread hands behind him. It was a rather lax pose for a Prime, but Prowl refrained from pointing that out. "You're downplaying your role in this."

"Am I?"

"I would say so," the Prime nodded. "The level of challenge you would have had to provide for Jazz to keep such an 'unpredictable and unstable' mech interested would be astronomical. It only goes to show that you truly are deserving of the position as commander you've been granted. I obviously haven't given your mental capacities enough credit- you've surpassed every expectation."

Prowl bowed his head accordingly in response to the compliment.

Optimus smiled at the familiar display. He was accustomed to being the recipient of such formalities, but none amused him more than when they were as strictly adhered to by bots like Prowl. There was something so straightforward and by-the-books about them. It didn't matter how many times Optimus told them they could drop the formalities, they never would. Prowl, most of all, would never dare.

The tactician came out of his shallow bow with a wince, taking a deep drag of air through his vents to steady himself. "I did what I had to in order to survive. I will try to continue to show that I am deserving of my position, sir."

"I have no doubt that you will." Optimus shifted his weight from one hand to the other, getting comfortable. He would have invited Prowl to drop the rigid stance and get comfortable as well, but he knew the invitation would be declined unless it was an order.

Prowl worked his mouthplates together, grinding them as he thought of what to say next, finally saying, "Jazz is a dangerous mech, sir." Probably the worst understatement of the century.

"He certainly is," Optimus allowed with an acquiescing nod. "Which begs the question, what is he doing here?"

Time for honesty, the kind of honesty that was probably going to make him lose his position as head tactical advisor for gross disregard of common sense.

"He risked his life for me, Prime," the tactician said, completely straightforward and devoid of excuses. "He contacted the Autobots of his own volition and orchestrated my escape; if he returned to the Decepticons, he surely would have been killed on sight. Unless circumstances have changed while I was gone, it is the creed of the Autobots to preserve all life. Even Decepticon life."

"Things haven't changed," the Prime stated, smiling minutely.

Prowl nodded. "I took a calculated risk in extending asylum to him. I realize the danger that I have placed everyone under. But this could be an extraordinary advantage to us if Jazz decides to ally himself to the Autobots."

"And how do you know this isn't an elaborate trap of his own making?" Optimus enquired.

"I don't. Not definitively." Prowl's optics dimmed, his expression hardening. "I can give you what the probability is for a thousand different possible scenarios, and I can further calculate a thousand different outcomes for each scenario. The thing is, sir, there was a moment before I left the Decepticon holding ground that I saw a mech who didn't know what to do or where to go. I took a chance on that." He clenched his fists for a moment. "I can't logically explain why I did it. I'm sorry."

Silence engulfed them as Prowl ceased speaking. It was a silence made heavy with the deep consideration Optimus Prime was currently fixing him with. The silent treatment had been an ally of Prowl and many others in Security Response when they questioned a suspect. It had also been to his advantage in the interrogation room when a Decepticon sat across from him. Even when a subordinate sat across from him in his office, a good, long silent treatment had broken even the most stubborn Autobot. To have it turned against him by the Prime himself was unnerving. Another natural gift of the Prime, perhaps…? Prowl started to question his earlier assumptions that the Prime would simply excuse his behaviour; had he been too hasty in the calculation…?

"I believe I've heard enough," Prime suddenly said, moving to stand.

"S-sir?" Instantly, Prowl's battle computer kicked in, yet again offering a thousand different possible scenarios and coming up with appropriate scripts for each. He opened his mouthplates to begin trying to work himself out of the miscalculated trouble he landed himself in, only to be silenced by a wave of Optimus' hand.

"Don't say anything more," the Prime ordered. Servos hissed as he stood, rolling his broad shoulders until something cracked into place. "In all the time you have been a part of the Autobots, I have never known you to do anything spontaneous. You have never taken a risk that wasn't absolutely necessary. You have always had the best interests of the Autobots in mind as you've conducted yourself." He came over and laid a firm hand to Prowl's shoulder. The tactician was grateful that his neural net was offline at the moment so he didn't break optic-contact by flinching in pain. "You have rightfully earned your title as head tactical advisor, and with that position comes a certain amount of trust. I trust you in all matters concerning the Decepticon Jazz; from here on out, he will be your responsibility."

Prowl's optics flashed. "I'm honoured, Prime."

A kind smile passed over Optimus's faceplate. "We'll see how much of an honour it will be. Jazz is not a mech to be taken lightly."

Prowl attempted to jerk a short bow. "Nevertheless, I am honoured to have your trust."

Smiling kinder still, Optimus patted the tactician once more on the shoulder before exiting the med bay. He turned at the door to impart a few last words. "I am no less honoured to have you as an Autobot, Prowl. You are a very unique individual."


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you so much to each of my reviewers, **Optimus Bob, Bluebird Soaring, Dragonrider2203, Refracted Imagination, Faecat, flamingmarsh, PrancingTiger86, lastditch, Mirage Shinkiro, Flight of Insanity, Player3, Jinx, Anon., FunkyFish1991, renegadewriter8, Independent C, Alangrieal, Ragnarok347, Chloo, Randomstrike, Peacewish**, and **Sebastian Nyte**. It's thanks to all of you that this story continues~ I could never thank you enough for the encouragement, support, Jazz/Prowl love, and warm fuzzies! =D

Special thanks to **FunkyFish1991** for being the Spock to my Kirk… minus the possible gay innuendoes that surround them. ^^;

You all said keep the Jazz/Prowl story coming, so here it is! *cheers*

**Chapter 3**

Ratchet returned not long after Optimus's departure. He looked to be in a fractionally better mood, which usually was the case after a brief visit with Wheeljack. As convenient as it was for an accident-prone engineer to be so deep in a relationship with a medic of Ratchet's temperament, as far as Prowl could tell, their friendship suited them. However, there was no shortage of confusion on Prowl's part in trying to understand how either mech- Wheeljack with his almost logic-defying accidents, and Ratchet with his ridiculously overblown temper- had come to hold positions of such high regard in the Autobot forces.

When the medic leaned in, Prowl leaned away. Not consciously, of course. More like an unconscious reflex to avoid the discomfort he knew was coming. Ratchet noticed, and didn't appreciate it.

"Hold still," he ordered. To enforce the order, he grabbed Prowl's shoulders and anchored him to the berth.

"Could this not be put off until after I recharge and have the energy to deal with the backlash?" Prowl sighed, trying to shake off the medic's hands.

Ratchet met Prowl's gaze evenly, a firm frown pulling down his mouthplates. "No. The longer you have it off, the worse it's going to be." He performed a few scans as he spoke, even visually appraising the storm-grey mech's frame for any damage he might have initially missed. "Besides, with such low energy reserves, if the backlash becomes too much, you can always pass out. Consider it an advantage."

Prowl's neutral stare narrowed fractionally. "That does me no comfort."

"Deal with it."

Next to them, First Aid peered up warily from the sections of spare armour and temp plating he and Ratchet had collected from Wheeljack. It wasn't enough to deal with all of Prowl's injuries, but continuous supply shortages practically guaranteed there was never enough for everyone. Thankfully, what they had was enough to put Prowl on the right track to recovery.

Prowl caught First Aid's gaze, held it, and then glared. First Aid accordingly went back to his work organizing the parts for when he and his mentor would apply them to Prowl the next orn.

"If you are going to do this to me, can I at least have my humiliation be _less_ of a public spectacle?" Prowl requested, still staring at First Aid.

Without looking to his apprentice, Ratchet replied, "First Aid is a medic. He doesn't count as the public."

"Even so, I would rather deal with my condition privately. You are Iacon's chief medical officer and I trust that you can see to me without the assistance of your apprentice." Prowl inclined his head to First Aid. "It is nothing against your abilities, First Aid, but I would rather have privacy during my… transition."

First Aid offered a small nod. "I understand."

Ratchet still frowned, but the gesture was not as severe at it had been. His gaze slid to his little red assistant and he said, "There's inventory that still has to be taken care of. Do you mind seeing to it for now? After you're done, you can get some recharge of your own."

First Aid took the dismissal with good graces, bowing and leaving promptly.

Prowl relaxed marginally, still wary of Ratchet's hands on him.

"Are you ready now?" the medic asked.

"Yes." One could never be completely prepared for what was about to happen, but Prowl was as steeled for it as he could be. Internal tension roused because of it bordered on painful.

"Do you want to engage it, or shall I?" Ratchet enquired.

Prowl drew away, bracing himself against the wall at the head of his berth. "I will," he insisted.

Ratchet respectfully backed off, moving to the other side of the aisle to give Prowl room enough to do what needed to be done. The procedure Prowl was about to undertake was not necessarily a dangerous one, but bots' reactions to the backlash often ranged from mild to extremely violent. Considering the traumas the mech had been exposed to over the past orns, Ratchet could bet anything that Prowl's transition back to emotionally operative was going to be less than smooth.

The tactician took a deep drag of air, preparing himself for the build up of emotions that was about to be released on himself. As rational as he was at the moment, he knew it was going to be all the worse in a few astroseconds' time. Pressing his back into the wall, he shuttered his optics and leaned his head back, appreciating his emotionless state for one last moment. It was very… peaceful. Not cumbersome at all. Girding his innards, he then delved into the familiar regions of his well-organized, diamond-sharp, impenetrable mind, seeking out one particular center. Access was easy, seeing as he had much experience turning it on and off. The proper alert for it appeared across his shuttered optics, flashing red in warning as it informed him of how long the center had been shut down.

_Accessing emotional center manual controls: Switching emotional center on. _

A disconcerting feeling, as if a physical switch were being flipped, slithered through his head. He suffered a curious moment of being caught in between two realities- one terribly rigid and ordered, the other convoluted and chaotic. He hung on the precipice for an astrosecond. Teetered there, waiting for his world to catch up.

And then crashed over the edge in a nauseating nosedive.

Ratchet's medical instincts rang to full life as he saw Prowl's faceplate fall. "Prowl-!" He dove forward to catch the mech, only to be too late. A horrible retching sound filled the med bay before Prowl wrenched to the side and purged his tanks across the floor. Having not been given proper energon for the length of his incarceration, there wasn't a lot to spill. It was a dull, murky greyish-blue sludge.

Prowl tried to look up as he heard his designation called, but the movement was too much for his suddenly sickened tanks. He retched again, emptying reservoirs. A new wave of nausea hit on the tail of the last, forcing him to spit the last dregs of congealed energon from his tanks. A dribble of it stuck to his mouthplates, rolling down his chin. Of its own volition, his mind ran through the events of the last few orns: he relived his capture, his incarceration, his torture… Saw each event, and suddenly experienced the terror for it all. What he should have experienced in those singular moments he was experiencing now all at the same time. It was a churning, roiling, sickening storm, causing his limbs to shake and his vision to black out.

Strong, dusky yellow hands grasped his arms and eased him back. Ratchet was trying to say something, but his words were lost in the gurgling, wild noises leaving his own vocal processor. The overwhelming ache of his spark feeling several sizes too large for his sparkcase burned straight through his chest. As Ratchet tried to seize him, tried to control the convulsing, it only made the terror of being caged as a prisoner rise to the surface. Prowl's reaction was stronger still, involuntarily crying out, frame bowing backward until it seemed he would snap in half.

With a grunt, Ratchet backed off, hands raised as that particular convulsion rocked the tactician. He moved forward once he deemed it safe, just as Prowl turned to the side, gripping the edge of his berth as memories and backlash emotions caused him to uncharacteristically sob. The medic determinedly stuck by the tactician's side, ensuring that Prowl did not accidentally throw himself to the floor. The experience as a whole did not last long, only a few breems. However, for one experiencing the trauma, it felt a thousand times longer. Calmness took a while to be restored in the aftermath. Prowl remained in a protective curled position, locked that way as occasional spasms rocked him.

Sensing the worst was now over, Ratchet eased Prowl back to lean him against the wall. "How do you feel?" he asked concernedly, his faceplate hovering closer-than-necessary as he assessed his patient's condition. Thankfully, there was no judgement in the medic's optics; had there been, it may have been too much for Prowl to handle in his vulnerable state.

"I feel," Prowl stated dourly. The metal of his frame rattled as he continued to involuntarily shake.

"That was the point. At least the initial wave has passed," Ratchet replied, hands smoothing over Prowl's faceplate expertly, moving down his arms, down his chest, over his legs. It seemed an odd gesture, even for a medic, but the extra heat generated by the heating elements in his palms was designed to sooth, unlocking seized joints and easing painful tension. "Are you in control of yourself now?"

Prowl scrubbed at his faceplate weakly. He still felt ill. Not hollow, but too full of too many things. A storm felt contained inside his frame, expanding and retreating in time to the burning pulse of his spark. His thoughts did not come to him as organized as he would have liked, and concentration was hindered by inflections of emotion. However, for the most part…

"I believe I am in control now."

Ratchet did not reply right away. He watched Prowl for a moment more, gauging his stability. Finally he said, "Good. That was a pretty nasty episode."

"Not something I want to repeat any time soon," Prowl sighed, now feeling exponentially more tired than he did before. With his tanks and reservoirs emptied of their energon and his energy reserves beyond drained, he had very little keeping him from falling into stasis. Surely his optics were nearly white from energy deprivation?

Ratchet frowned. "Are you in any intense discomfort?"

"No more than what you would expect." He wavered for a moment, optics dimming.

"Would you like something to ease the discomfort?" Ratchet offered, already moving to a drawer for the appropriate injection. "I was going to administer something that would numb the pain when you turned your neural relays back on. Throwing in a minor tranquilizer won't do you too much harm."

Prowl nodded. "I would appreciate it."

"Just don't get used to it," Ratchet warned, only semi-playfully. "You should learn better emotional control so sessions like this don't have to happen." He faced Prowl with a loaded injector in hand.

The tactician regarded the tool without aversion. A small frown graced his mouthplates. "War is not the best teacher, nor is it an easy medium to work in."

Ratchet looked down, shaking his head minutely. "No, I don't suppose it is. This, at least, will ease you for now."

There was no armour on his arm to peel back for Ratchet to have access to the appropriate energon line, so the injector was inserted into a valve and released. The effects were thankfully immediate.

A dozy look crossed Prowl's faceplate, relief sweeping his features. "If it is all right with you, I think I will recharge now."

"Of course," the medic chuckled, turning for the door. He set some drones to cleaning the floor where Prowl had purged. "Should you online and need me, I'm merely a comm. line away." When he received no answer, he peered over his shoulder, only to find Prowl was out cold. With a shake of his head, Ratchet left for his own quarters.

* * *

The graveyard shift was notorious for being as exciting as watching paint dry. It seemed to be a universal constant among all factions, distributed among all bases: nothing ever happened during the night shifts.

For Jazz, it was the perfect time for a walk. Yes, _a walk._

The quietness of the night did something for him. Helped him get his thoughts in order, which were usually along the lines of how he could disrupt such peaceful quietness. In the past, it had been too easy to waltz into a base, take whatever he needed, and waltz back out. His favourite jaunt, before he'd been invited into the Decepticons, had been the night he simply walked into a base with nothing more than a simple signature modulator and the right attitude.

Not a single bot had stopped him. Granted, if a bot _had_ tried to stop him, they would never find the frame of the unfortunate spark.

Becoming a Decepticon had not exactly curbed Jazz's nightly habits; they merely took on more _creative_ attributes. Like, say, stalking into random Cons' quarters while they recharged, stealing a few trinkets, and planting them in other Cons' quarters. The practise kept him sharp. Watching chaos bloom in the morning was always rewarding. Even Megatron garnered some form of twisted entertainment from the night-wanderings, if only because they showcased Jazz's considerable talents as a saboteur.

And Jazz had _very_ considerable talents as a saboteur, if he did say so himself. He had yet to encounter anyone as gifted as he himself was.

Granted, Megatron would not be so impressed if he knew what kinds of things Jazz had been doing in his quarters while the Decepticon leader recharged… He could only guess what old Meggy was thinking of him now.

Chuckling to himself, Jazz leaned back on the berth he lounged on. It actually was a rather comfortable one; internally warmed, layered with a relatively soft polymer layer. In the med bay.

Jazz chuckled in self-satisfaction, glancing about the darkened room. Iacon's med bay was interestingly cleaner than Straxis', though no less foreboding. Medical intimidation was yet another universal constant that remained unchanged by faction.

By far, the interior of the med bay was much more appealing than the brig.

It had been too easy to get out of that sorry excuse for an Autobot brig. A little hacking here, a little physical force on a few guards there… It wasn't like a Decepticon brig at all. At least in those ones, they usually mangled you in some way to prevent you from escaping. The Autobots were too damned noble to do the smart thing. Kind of sad, really. Not that the encryption codes that kept him in his cell weren't impressive- he'd have to give whatever Autobot who wrote the codes some credit; some work had been necessary to crack them. However, the guards left something to be desired. Poor things had just about jumped out of their armour when Jazz crossed the threshold into the aisle. They fought valiantly despite being outmatched. For their efforts, Jazz left them alive. It was the least he could do.

The fun part had been sleuthing down the corridors. In truth, not exactly smooth sleuthing when one took into account the amount of hacking into security cameras and visual/audio looping he had to do so no one was the wiser to his walk, but a pleasant game nonetheless. Even better, it was a game played at the expense of the rest of the base.

How easily Jazz could have snuck into the command center, shot everyone dead, and called in the Decepticons to raid the place.

He could have found his way down to the energon stores and detonated the stash.

There were endless possibilities for what kinds of fun Jazz could have on an Autobot base.

Of course, he wasn't there for that sort of thing. No, he was in Iacon for an entirely _different_ reason, hence being in the med bay rather than in the command center, or the energon stores, or anywhere else he shouldn't be. One particular Autobot of interest laid unconscious on the berth parallel to him. In the dark, he could make out the distorted outline of the mech; storm-grey armour patched in sections, the most damaged of it removed. Not peaceful, but not entirely on guard either- some strange place in between.

_Prowl_.

Muted systems hummed, fans whirred, and intakes sighed as they exchanged air to cool his insides. One little slip of Jazz's finger and the Autobot would be dead before he knew it. Daringly, Jazz leaned over and traced the tip of his claw against Prowl's faceplate, as if mocking the mech with how close to death he really was.

"_So close,"_ Jazz teased.

Prowl gave a muted snort, disturbed by the touch, and suddenly his optics were open.

"Well, well, look who's online," Jazz purred, lightly taking his hand back.

There was a moment of confusion as Prowl took stock of where he was and who the silver mech watching him was. In an instant, he was up, rigid, and reaching for a weapon he didn't have.

"Calm down, now. No need for gettin' antsy," Jazz laughed, hands up in a placating gesture. "If Ah was gonna hurt ya, Ah would have done it by now."

Prowl did not relax with the reassurances. He quickly tracked where all the exits were, where all the drones in the room in the room where, where each piece of equipment was and what could be used as a weapon. Lastly, he tracked how far away the comm. buttons were, should he need to call for help. Once done with the rapid assessment, the mech did relax somewhat. He was still rigid, but at least not cagey. His faceplate fell into that calculating mask Jazz had memorized during their time together in interrogation.

"What are you doing here?" Prowl asked. The few joors of recharge he'd scored had been enough to give him some edge over his faculties. He was weak, but at least he could pretend he wasn't.

The Decepticon leaned back with a nonchalance that was as relaxed as it was danger incarnate. "Just visitin'."

Prowl blinked, and then narrowed his optics. "Visiting me?"

"Is there someone else Ah should be visitin'?" Jazz asked, both optic ridges arched high in mocking incredulity.

"No, of course not. You should not even be here."

"Ah'm hurt. Here Ah thought Ah was doin' a nice thing for ya."

"One good deed and you think you are a philanthropist?"

"Maybe, but Ah think it's two good deeds, three if ya count yer rescue."

"Two?"

"Ah'm here visitin', an' Ah didn't kill ya while ya recharged." He slid from the berth, into the shadows of the med bay. The vibrant glow of his visor dimmed and then disappeared as he adjusted its settings. He wasn't leaving, just trying to make himself invisible to unnerve his company.

"Which begs the question of _how_ you are here at all," Prowl stated. Jazz may have slunk into the shadows, but his spark resonance was loud and clear on the tactician's scanners. It was a wonder how no one else was picking up the Decepticon signature and raising the alarm. Was everyone else recharging on their shift? Or had Jazz done something to their sensors to disrupt them?

Suddenly, a pair of hands gripped the other side of the berth, opposite to where Jazz had been sitting. A serpentine silver frame leaned into view. He leaned in too close. Close enough for Prowl to want to lean away. He was not to be intimidated, though, so he stayed his ground and stared back into that dark stretch of crystal that covered Jazz's optics.

"Ya invited meh here, remember?" the saboteur purred.

"I remember extending my hand to you, yes."

"So here Ah am."

Prowl leaned forward a fraction, his forehead almost touching Jazz's. "You are supposed to be in the brig."

Jazz grinned. Instead of backing off, his hand came up to curl around the back of Prowl's head, pressing their foreheads together intimately. "'_Supposed to be'_ is the key phrase there, Prowler. Ah got bored." He wedged his knee on the edge of the berth to lever himself up, pressing his sleek silver chest against Prowl's dulled storm-grey chassis. "Ah think Ah missed ya."

Prowl went rigid, his optics flashing. For a moment, Jazz had the disappointing thought that intimacy was all it took to break the icy bot. But, no, Prowl was not to be broken so easily. A very strange smile crept onto the tactician's faceplate, an expression that shouldn't have been possible on a mech who wasn't programmed with emotions. His stance relaxed, becoming fluid and sensate against Jazz's. His hands slid up along the saboteur's front. Icy optics turned deep and rich, hands firming against silver armour.

"And I believe I missed you, as well."

"Did ya now…"

"_Oh yes."_

Like the sensuous whisper of a lover. The sudden change in Prowl's demeanour was enough to surprise Jazz, giving the Autobot the upper hand. Seeing Jazz's lapse, Prowl's expression hardened. With a snarl, he used what little energy he had to throw the Decepticon off and away.

Stumbling into a berth, Jazz laughed. "Damn, ain't you full of surprises!"

Prowl's faceplate lost all traces of warmth, a glare livid in his optics. "As are you, it seems." He brushed his hands down his front as if to slough off any remaining presence of the Decepticon. "I shudder to think what you have done to get out of the brig."

Now the saboteur was even more interested in the tactician than he was before. Yet another assumption he had made of the Autobot was wrong; Prowl was not _devoid_ of emotion, but _simmering_ with it. He could see it now, smouldering like banked embers in his optics. How could he have missed something so very interesting_? _Yet another thing Prowl proved to make Jazz fail at; reading mechs.

Easing onto the berth he had been shoved into, Jazz smirked, assessing Prowl anew. Not a speck of his own annoyance at missing details showed. "You know better than anyone here that that brig wouldn't have held meh. Ah didn't do nothin' ta hurt no one… much."

Prowl's optics narrowed fractionally.

Jazz shrugged. "The guards will be fine by mornin' with only a couple new dents, Ah swear." And most of their processors assessed and copied into Jazz's own for future reference and/or blackmail. He wasn't about to admit that part, though.

Prowl gave a shallow nod, but did not bother to trust Jazz's word. It was a sixth sense that told him the saboteur had done more than simply knock a few bots around. Something also informed that that the Decepticon had not brought anyone to permanent harm. At the very least, he hadn't killed anyone. Considering _who _Jazz was, the fact that no one had suffered irreparable harm was a boon.

The saboteur leaned forward, inky shadows hiding most of faceplate and frame. Prowl did not correct his optic settings to see the Decepticon better.

"Tell meh, Prowler… that special little sparkle Ah see in your optics- is that a new addition, or were ya just hidin' it from meh?"

"It is none of your concern."

"Isn't it?" In the gloom, Jazz's smirk turned dangerous. He tapped the side of his head. "Because accordin' ta the report Optimus Prime just submitted, you're now in charge of mah presence in Iacon. Ah think Ah'd like ta know what kind of surprises ya have hidden away in that processor of yours before ya think ya can assume command of meh."

The tactician's optics flashed, revealing more than he meant to, before his expression dimmed into something far more neutral. It wasn't enough to hide all traces of emotion, though. Now that Jazz knew they were there, he was looking for them. Beyond anything, it intrigued him that Prowl had been able to hide them for so long. Not just hide them, but make them disappear all together. Not even a glimmer of knowing had come to him during their time together. Jazz knew of no one else with such… _strength_.

"My processor is my own," Prowl stated. "You had no business in it in Straxis and you have no business in it now."

"Ah'll make it mah business." In a surprise move, Jazz's visor suddenly lightened, and then it drew back. The deep red glow of his optics glinted off the sharp angles of his faceplate. There was curiosity in those diamond-sharp optics. Intrigue. He was already scheming for the orns ahead, looking to do what he failed to do in Straxis: get into Prowl's head, crawl under his armour, and _break him_.

Already seeing the gears begin to turn in that unpredictable head, Prowl straightened. His resolve was wavering, exhausting beginning to creep back up on him. He only needed the strength to coax the beast back into its cage and then he could rest. However many steps Jazz was ahead, Prowl had to be several steps ahead of that.

"Why did you come here, Jazz?" Prowl suddenly asked. He remembered the flash of uncertainty that had crossed the saboteur's faceplate in that one wild moment. A moment when Jazz had not been in control.

Jazz canted his head. "Like Ah said, Ah missed ya."

"Why did you agree to come here, to Iacon?"

Finally, Jazz tripped up. Despite all his ponderings on the subject, he still had no answer as to why he had followed Prowl. He had no answer for why he was in Iacon. His gaze met Prowl's squarely, and superimposed over the moment was the instant Prowl had frozen on the boundary between Straxis and freedom-

"_Come with me." _

"_Ah can't." _

And yet Jazz did.

"Have you no answer?" Prowl asked, quirking an optic ridge.

Sliding like oil from his berth, Jazz braced his hands against Prowl's berth and leaned in. He did not go for unnerving intimacy this time. The intensity of his stare was enough. He opened his mouthplates and delivered his answer on a smooth murmur.

"Ya asked. Ah came."

A severe optic ridge rose. "That's all?"

The saboteur nodded tightly. "That's all."

"So if I asked you to return to the brig?"

"All ya had ta do was ask." Jazz smirked, backing up and sauntering to the door. He paused before leaving, turning to assess the storm-grey mech he was leaving for the time being. Distance between them allowed for shadow to fill in the space, leaving only the glow of their optics piercing the gloom. Smouldering red meeting icy blue. Jazz's smirk widened as he considered the game that was slowly taking shape between them.

"Ya know," he said airily. "Whatever sort of thing is between us now, it's only just begun."

Prowl inclined his head. He, too, sensed the challenge brewing between them. "Don't worry. I have every intention of seeing this through."


	4. Chapter 4

Once again, thank you all so much for your amazing feedback! Without you, this story surely wouldn't be half as amazing! The more love that you readers show, the more effort I want to put into making this story the best it can possibly be! My deepest and most sincere thanks to **Optimus Bob, Bluebird Soaring, Katherine, Peacewish, Faecat, Alangrieal, Refracted Imagination, PrancingTiger86, Elita One, renegadewriter8, Flight of Insanity, FunkyFish1991, Marinelife37, Jinx, Randomstrike, KageOkami666, lastditch, Mirage Shinkiro, Anon., Shizuka Taiyou, Lecidre, Cynthia, Chloo**, and **Pheobe Turner!** You're all the best!

And now on with the show~ Read, Review, & Enjoy =)

**Chapter 4**

Jazz onlined the next morning to see the original guards he had roughed up the night before had been found. Their fallen frames were gone from the aisle, granted a fate worse than any Jazz could have given them: off to the med bay for a session with Ratchet.

Curious to see who the Autobots had deigned an appropriate match for him this time, the saboteur stood and strode to the reinstated force field he'd put up upon returning to his cell. He was in luck. Just as he made it to the threshold, the door at the far end of the brig shushed open to admit a pair of mechs that made Jazz's mouthplates curl up in dangerous delight. Oh, this could prove interesting. Yes, indeed, very, very interesting…

Opposed to popular belief, the Autobots were not complete morons. Jazz's new company at least proved that his enemies knew of the right precautions to take with him, even if it took the incapacitation of two guards to get it through their heads. His new guards were the closest things to Decepticons the Autobots had. Ironhide did not count: he was just a pair of cannons with an Autobot attached to them. Who Jazz had now were renowned killers. They were merciless. Sparkless.

Unlike all others on base, Jazz had no doubt that if he tried something with them, they would not hesitate to kill him in cold energon. It was going to be a long, fun orn tormenting them.

"At least Ah know Ah'm not gonna be bored with you two," the saboteur said, loud enough to draw the attention of his new company.

Sideswipe canted his head, first glancing at his twin before meeting Jazz's visor. Not a speck of fear crossed his handsome features. He was cocky for cocky's sake.

"Hello to you, too, Jazz." Snatching a chair that had been overturned in the night's scuffle, he dragged it down to Jazz's cell and sprawled out comfortably in it. He was coolness incarnate, belying a calculated warrior lurking just below the polish of his bright-red paint. "Never thought I'd see you here. Iacon ain't your kind of scene."

Jazz shrugged, putting on the same air of mock-civility. "The same could be said for the both of ya. Ah always thought the next time Ah saw ya, you'd be dead." His gaze slid from Sideswipe to Sunstreaker, sizing the other mech up.

Sunstreaker remained silent, staying near the end of the aisle. He returned Jazz's measuring stare unflinchingly, his optics cutting like ice-cold diamonds. There was no fear. Optics like those didn't tend to reflect much of anything. He was the kind of mech who killed because he wanted to, or was driven to it by some inner demon.

Sideswipe leaned back, stretching out his long legs. "Things happen," he intoned nonchalantly. "You never know where you might end up, right?"

Jazz cast a glance about his cramped, dull cell. "True." He smirked, lounging back on his scarred berth. "Ah didn't think Ah would see such friendly faceplates so far from home, though. What brings ya _here_, of all places?"

Curiously, Sunstreaker's gaze grew sharper. However, he said not a word. Instead, he gathered the second felled chair and brought it to lean against the opposite wall, behind his brother's shoulder. His glare burned like lasers through the force field. It would have made a lesser mech wither. Jazz was kind of tickled by it.

"No reason in particular," Sideswipe replied, a tad too airily for it to be entirely true.

"Right. Ah don't believe ya."

"That's because you're paranoid. And crazy," Sideswipe helpfully tacked on.

"True and truer." But there was a definite reason why the Twins were not Decepticons, and it definitely was not '_no reason in particular'_. In fact, Jazz was pretty sure it had something to do with Sunny, who was the same but different from what he had been as a gladiator. Something tiny and indiscernible was tweaked about the mech, making him differ from the machine he'd been in Kaon. Curiosity drove Jazz to test the limits of the beast. What changed him? What would it take to make him crack? Could he be used? Manipulated?

Sunstreaker, upon realizing Jazz's focus, rumbled darkly. His mouthplates lifted in a subtle snarl meant to deter attention. Unfortunately, the saboteur was only encouraged more. Was it he himself that was offensive, or his Decepticon alliance? Whatever the reason, it went beyond the usual Decepticons-are-evil mindless thought process. He looked like he wanted to take Jazz apart in the most painful ways possible, and then do it again just to make him suffer more.

Whatever could that delightful little reason be for such unfathomable hatred…?

Sideswipe made a noise designed to bring attention back to him, not liking how easily Jazz was riling his twin. "You better get comfortable in there, Jazz. You ain't getting out any time soon."

"So accommodating, ya Autobots," the Decepticon laughed, meaning nothing but the worst.

Sideswipe curled a fake smile. More like a sneer. "Bots like us? We're always trying to be accommodating."

"An' so ya are." The silver mech leaned back, lounging. "Havin' ya here is better than havin' that gun turret ya call a weapons specialist breathin' fire down at meh. He's too easy ta mess with."

Jazz noted Sideswipe's discreet lean to left, unconsciously shielding his twin. It was a clear indication that Sunstreaker was close to being set off, but only if the right triggers were found. Jazz was increasingly becoming interested in finding those triggers.

"The way I see it, you got off easy, especially with that stunt you pulled last night wandering all over the place," Sideswipe intoned. Everyone on base had heard by now: gossip travelled faster than the speed of light around Iacon. "There were three options- one, kill you outright, which Prime and Prowl didn't seem in favour of. Two, have Ironhide come down here, stomp around for a few breems before he shot you, which still didn't sit right with Prime or Prowl. And three, have us come down here and watch you, which Prowl _still_ doesn't like, but at least Prime agreed to it."

Jazz's optic ridge rose, an invisible gesture behind his visor. "Ya volunteered ta come down here?"

Sideswipe made a face. "Not exactly. The acting tactical commander suggested that me and Sunny were best suited to be your sparkling-sitters until Prowl is well enough figure something else out. It was either this, or I had to go directly to Prowl, listen to him nag, and then end up in the cell right next to you."

"Better out there than in here," Jazz admitted. "How is Prowler this mornin', anyways? Did he recharge well?"

Wise enough to know not to answer directly, Sideswipe shrugged. "Well enough, I guess. No thanks to you."

"Now isn't that harsh? Ah'm the one who got him out of Straxis, remember?" the silver mech intoned, a tad condescending.

"For what price?" the red mech snorted. Being a merchant had taught him many things, especially when he had had dealings with the ever-dangerous Jazz. One lesson, in particular, was that there was _always_ a price to be paid. "If I remember correctly, you're not the kind of mech who does anything for free."

"Ya do remember correctly, but mah price is between Prowl an' Ah." A smirk rounded off the answer. "Ya understand, of course, bein' the mech that ya are." It was rewarding to watch Sideswipe's sharp glance to the security camera. No doubt the Autobots knew of the Twins' exploits in their own fields of illegal wrong-doings, but _how much_ had they allowed their faction to know?

Finally, the red mech snorted, looking away. "Whatever, it's not like I care about either one of you."

Jazz smirked wider, his visor flashing. "That's more like the mech Ah knew."

Sideswipe's mouthplates fell into a scowl. "You never knew me in Kaon, and you sure as pit don't know me now."

The silver mech paused for an astrosecond, and then tipped his head back to laugh. The gesture only served to irritate Sideswipe and incense Sunstreaker further. Deciding that enough fun had been had at the pair's expense, Jazz skilfully directed their conversation back into more general waters with a modicum of amiability. Sideswipe, not stupid by any stretch of the imagination, recognized the change and followed appropriately.

Sunstreaker kept aloof of any conversation, ignoring his brother and Jazz completely if a question was directed his way. But just because he wasn't contributing to the semi-friendly exchanges didn't mean he wasn't giving away his fair share of secrets. Being that he was a figure of curiosity for the present Decepticon, a sharp optic was kept on him for much of the time, taking note of what topics garnered what kinds of reactions. Irritation. Rage. Hatred. Disgust. Without even a word, Jazz was learning exactly what made the gladiator tick.

Despite the fact that Iacon's brig was one of the least stimulating places on the planet, the orn passed generally well. Granted, much of what conspired between the Autobot and Decepticon wasn't much more than mock-sincerity, fake smiles, and barely-veiled insults and innuendos that could strip the paint off even the most war-hardened hide. Oddly enough, their amiable hostility created a vague sense of uneasy camaraderie. They were far from equals, but the Twins were the closest things to Decepticons within the entire base. They were interesting. They were enough to appease Jazz for the time being.

It was almost a surprise when the end of the orn came and both Twins rose from their seats.

"Can't say it was fun, but it's been decent," Jazz commented as he watched their retreating backs.

"Better than regular duty," Sideswipe shrugged.

"Am Ah gonna see ya bright an' early tomorrow?" the saboteur enquired, sounding very much like a taunt. He leaned against the corner made by the wall and the force field keeping him in his cell, smirking.

"Yep," the melee warrior replied, doing a few last checks of the force fields to make sure everything was in order. He even checked the security feeds to ensure they hadn't been tampered with… again. What entertained Jazz the most was when the red mech nodded to his Twin, signalling some silent request. Taking a small electromagnetic device out of subspace, of a design Jazz knew not to be Autobot, Sunstreaker discreetly shot two blasts, each into the cameras directly watching the brig's main work station. With the feeds momentarily shorted, Sideswipe quickly began inputting codes of his own into the computer, and then ripped out a side panel to hotwire the circuit boards.

Sunstreaker grunted a warning as the pulse started to wear off.

Appearing over the work station once more, Sideswipe clicked in once last series of codes. The end result caused Jazz's force field to flash bright for an astrosecond, followed by the vague scent of burnt air particles. A burn mark along the floor where the field met metal attested to one of the modifications the Autobot had taken upon himself to make. He probably had had to drain an entire floor of power to get the voltage for it.

"See if that doesn't keep you happy for a while," Sideswipe announced, smirking. He knew that whatever measure he took against Jazz wasn't going to measure up, but just offering the extra challenge was fun enough. He could only hope the offering was enough to appease Jazz from breaking out again and killing whoever came to watch him through the night.

Jazz ghosted his hand over the field, brushing it with a weak magnetic touch. It snapped back at him with a vengeance, nearly searing his palm. He laughed. "Ah'm guessing this ain't exactly Autobot regulation."

"Does it matter?"

"No, only makes meh more curious."

Sideswipe leaned over the console, one optic ridge quirked. "Of what?"

"Why ya got an Autobot insignia painted on ya rather than a Decepticon one."

The light smirk on the red mech's faceplate vanished. His brother tensed, optics narrowing. In the quiet that followed, Sunstreaker's rolling growl rose warningly.

Feeling that now was as good a time as any to test what he thought he knew, Jazz pressed on. With a smooth, knowing smirk, he dutifully told them, "You an' Ah both know yer about as Autobot as Ah am."

"We're not Decepticons," Sideswipe spat, glaring. Whatever brittle connection they had forged crumbled instantly.

"But ya were gonna be, weren't ya?"

"Never-"

"_Liar,"_ Jazz sneered. "Ah know what the two of you were like in Kaon. Ya were Decepticons before bots even knew the name."

"Mute it, Jazz," Sideswipe ordered darkly.

The saboteur failed to heed the order. "Ah know how much Megatron _favoured_ ya, an' ya worshipped him right back. Hung on ta his every word, didn't ya? Did as he said, didn't ya? Played his games, acted like his own personal army; you did things that even mechs like meh don't wanna dream of." With each word that passed his mouthplates, the saboteur knew he was plucking more and more neural wires. It wasn't Sideswipe he was interested in, but his twin. "Ya don't want ta be here, on this side," he continued, gaze sliding to Sunstreaker. "Too clean, ain't it? Everyone's too upstandin' an' good an' noble; they fight fer what's _right._ That ain't your style. That ain't you at all."

Sunstreaker's fists clenched.

Sharp optics caught the tension. A thrill dashed through him, knowing he was on the right track. A little more prodding should be enough to snap him. "Ah could break outta here right now an' tell him ya want in. Megatron'll welcome ya both with open arms- pit, he'll give ya both a parade. Still wants ya on his side, fightin' for him. Always wonders what made ya turn away, why ya fell ta the wrong side-."

A snarl ripped through the air, cutting Jazz off. A blur of gold shot up the aisle, a pair of fists slamming into the force field. The ferocity of the attack combined with the voltage of the field instantly charred the mech's pristine forearms black. The acrid scent of seared paint bloomed.

Jazz tossed his head back and laughed. "Was it somethin' Ah said?"

"Keep talking and I'll make sure you never say another word again," Sunstreaker snarled.

Not one to follow advice, Jazz kept talking. "What's the matter, Sunny? Don't like meh too much? Or not likin' what you're hearin'?"

Sunstreaker growled menacingly.

Jazz leaned in, visor gleaming. "Who did Megatron have to kill for you to hate him so much?"

A louder snarl broke the room, claws slashing out.

"A friend?"

The attack nearly broke through the force field. Also nearly burned Sunstreaker's fingers off…

"A lover, was it?" Jazz goaded, jeering.

A flash of red crossed Sunstreaker's optics as he raised his arm, transformed it into a gun, and aimed for the control panel that individually regulated Jazz's cell. One blast would short out the field and give Sunstreaker the freedom he needed to slash the saboteur to ribbons.

"Sunny, no!" Sideswipe leapt over the work station, straight into the spark of danger as he grappled with his twin to turn the muzzle of the gun elsewhere. "Don't play into him like that! He's messing with you!"

"Yeah, _Sunny_, Ah'm messing with ya!" Jazz crowed.

Sunstreaker wrenched away from his brother, bristling furiously over Jazz. "You know exactly what Megatron did!"

Jazz waved that off, condescending incarnate. "Megatron's done a lot of things, whelp. Try narrowing the playing field."

"That pit-spawned fragger doesn't give a flying slag about anyone but himself! He bombed the entire ring just to get rid of a few Autobot spies!" Sunstreaker roared. "He murdered his own people! Didn't even think twice about sacrificing all of us! That's what he did!"

Under, around, and between the words, Jazz read unimaginable loss fuelling Sunstreaker's rage. It wasn't all the dead sparks that angered him, though there had been many lost. Just one dead spark that he was attached to. It'd be rather pathetic, if Jazz wasn't set on exploiting this for all it was worth. "So you're gonna take it out on every Decepticon that comes across your path, huh?"

"If you follow him, you're no better than he is!" the golden mech snarled.

"Ah'd like ta think Ah'm a little better looking."

Sunstreaker leaned down to be on par with the saboteur, optics smouldering. "The only reason I'm an Autobot is because it's the farthest thing away from being a Decepticon. One of these orns, I'm going to find Megatron on the battlefield and I'm going to kill him. Push me one more time and Optimus Prime can go frag himself, because I'll kill you, too. I won't even think twice."

The door at the far end of the brig hissed open to admit the four mechs appointed to guard duty for the night. Sensing the tension, they hung back, silent. Sunstreaker gave one last, long glare down at Jazz, which the saboteur met easily. With Sideswipe's beckoning hand on his back, the berserker swung away, cutting a wide path for himself through his fellow Autobots.

Before they were gone, Jazz raised a hand to wave, his mocking smile returned. "See ya bright an' early tomorrow!"

* * *

"Sideswipe!"

The red mech froze mid-step, his brother walking ahead two more paces before deciding to stick around in case he needed to support his twin… correction, drag his twin out of trouble.

"I need to speak with you," Prowl said brusquely, said in such a way that it came out like an order.

"Right now?" Sideswipe asked, frowning. "We'll be late for guard duty."

"That can wait," Prowl countered. "No doubt the delay will inform Jazz of the switch in his guardianship."

"But…" Sideswipe glanced around, looking for an out. No doubt he thought his actions the past few orns spreading doubt of Prowl's mental capacities were finally catching up with him.

"Here?" Sunstreaker intoned, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

Several curious bots had stopped to peer between the squared off trio. They were either looking forward to the dressing-down Sideswipe was about to publicly receive or wary of what would happen if the psycho-Twins were pushed the wrong way. It was no secret that the Twins were more Decepticon than Autobot. However, no one would ever dare say that to their faceplates. They were among the very few who tested the higher ranking bots to their limits. Prowl was, by far, one of their favourite to torment. To be fair, Prowl seemed to enjoy punishing the Twins in return.

"A more private setting will be more appropriate," the tactician allowed, sending a cursory stare around to the paused Autobots. Taking the hint, everyone who had been standing around waiting for something interesting to happen suddenly found that they had important work to do. Bluestreak quickly broke through the tide, jogged up to Prowl to pat him on the shoulder, and said very quickly, "Welcome back to duty, sir!" before he was swept away again.

"If you will follow me?" he invited, but it was a rhetorical invitation. He expected them to follow.

"Sure… sir."

Prowl looked him over, noting the cagey wariness in the red warrior's optics. Like Jazz, Sideswipe had a calculating mind behind a playful façade, though it lacked in the extreme complexity that Jazz held in his operations. Everything about his stance screamed that he wanted to turn on his heel and escape. As it stood, Prowl needed to speak with him so escape was out of the question.

"This way, please." Turning back the way he came, he let Sideswipe fall into line. Sunstreaker took longer to follow, though eventually ranged behind them at his own pace. He led them to the security room, down in one of the more isolated halls of the base. He allowed the door to shush open and then stepped back to allow the twins in first. There was already a mech within the small confines, seeing to the numerous camera feeds. Even though Red Alert had been fully aware of their approach through the several dozen cameras stationed along the hall, he still jumped when they entered.

"Commander," he greeted hastily, bowing.

"Red Alert," Prowl replied. "Do you mind if I commandeer this room for a short while?

"Oh? Um…I suppose, if you need it… Just don't be long." Red Alert, like Prowl, had once been a Security Response officer, though from a Kaon precinct in the city centre. The city had been ill-suited for a mech so high-strung as he. His paranoia was now a permanently ingrained feature. However, as jumpy as he was, Red Alert could spot danger like no one else; he knew pure danger when he saw it. He was currently staring at the Twins.

Prowl laid a hand to the other mech's shoulder. "I will keep an optic on the cameras, and I assure you _they_-," meaning the twins, "will not touch anything."

Nodding, Red Alert turned and tapped a sequence into the controls just to make sure no one messed with his settings. "There, it should be fine for now. Just… keep an eye on that one, sir." He nodded to Sideswipe stonily. "All he needs is for you to look away for an astrosecond and he'll reprogram everything."

"One time and they never let you forget it," Sideswipe murmured not-so-quietly to his brother, who smirked.

"_Four times,"_ Red Alert corrected tersely. He looked to Prowl seriously. "I read the report- you've been personally appointed guardianship of Jazz. A very wise decision on Prime's part, I believe. You're one of the best tacticians I've seen in a long time." He jerked his head vaguely to the monitors at his back. "I've recorded everything he's done since entering Iacon, so you should have plenty of material to study him." With one last suspicious look back at the twins, he left.

Sideswipe immediately launched into a ramble to save his spark- "Okay, if this has anything to do with rumours concerning you being a crazy, babbling mess coming off the rescue ship, and the fact that I may or may not have started said rumours… There's a perfectly good explanation for it, I swear." He prepared make a real effort for his lie; Prowl could usually spot the shoddy ones. "See, I may have had a couple too cubes of high-grade in Nebula One that orn, so when we all heard that you were back, I may have started to say a couple things. But just that once! And I was so over-energized, I barely had any idea what I was doing! In fact, I hardly remember it! Everything got out of hand after that- you know how it is."

Prowl raised a hand to cease the rambling. "That is not what this is about."

Sideswipe blinked. "…it's not?"

Sunstreaker discreetly snorted.

"No." Prowl frowned. "But as soon as I settle on a disciplinary action suiting for such antics, you will suffer the consequences."

Knowing his fate wasn't being handed to him right away put Sideswipe marginally at ease. "Right… So, what is this about?"

Prowl came abreast of the long spread of video controls. He typed in the codes for all of the brig cameras, focusing on Jazz from several different angles. He was lounging at the back of his cell, looking at ease. His current guards were heavily armed and looking increasingly jumpy the longer they were left waiting for the twins to relieve them of duty.

"Him."

"Oh." Uncomfortable with the intensity of the stare he was being fixed with, Sideswipe dared a quick glace to Sunstreaker, who had transformed into the embodiment of a golden storm cloud. Switching his gaze back to Prowl, he asked, "What do you want to know about him?"

"I want to be better prepared when I face him again; anything to give me the advantage." Bracing his hands against the station behind him, Prowl leaned forward, about to lay his best gamble on the table. "You two are from a similar social stratum as Jazz- your Kaon life, not your youth in Centaurie Tetrax," he quickly intoned, seeing Sideswipe about to object. "You ran in similar social circles, and I am willing to bet that you-," he nodded to Sideswipe, "at least knew each other peripherally. Merchant to… whatever Jazz was."

A quick, short movement caught Prowl's optic. He glanced at Sunstreaker, whose optics had narrowed beyond his normal glare. Prowl didn't tense in return, but he did straighten in challenge. What the public never knew about the twins, Prowl was informed of all too well. All Security Response officers were aware of the underground fight rings that peppered the planet; everyone had a list of suspected fighters and affiliates filed away. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had been among the top of the list.

"How much do you know about us?" Sunstreaker growled.

"I know enough," Prowl admitted.

That did not ease the berserker's tension. He continued to glare.

Prowl frowned. "Whatever your pasts happen to be, they are of no concern to me at this moment. No matter what unsavoury or illegal things you did, it was before you joined the Autobots. No one here, save the Prime should he so incline, has any jurisdiction over your past actions." He leaned in towards Sunstreaker, deadly serious. "All I want to know now is if you can give me an edge over Jazz."

"The only kind I could give you is how to kill him before he even knows he was dead." The golden one looked to his brother. "I didn't know the fragger, but Sides had deals with him occasionally."

Sideswipe was all seriousness now. "I don't know what to tell you," he said, though was thinking hard for any detail. "Jazz is… he's always been a hard one to pin down."

"You have been with him every orn, all orn, since he was put in the brig." Prowl brought up several videos displaying Sideswipe and Jazz chatting amiably. "You've been speaking on what looks like even terms."

"That doesn't mean I'm about to go exclusive with him," Sideswipe countered. "That was just talk, you know? To pass the time. Better than being quiet all orn long."

"Sides doesn't do "quiet" very well," Sunstreaker intoned.

Snorting, Sideswipe continued. "Jazz- he's got this way about him. He can talk for joors about anything and everything and make it seem like he's the best expert there is. He can do it all orn if he wants to. But if he doesn't want to give away something about himself, he won't."

Prowl nodded stonily. "He's smart and guarded, I know that."

"He's also the kind of mech who'd backstab you in the faceplate."

Prowl resisted the urge to comment on the illogicality of such a statement. "Is there anything of tactical worth that you can think of?"

Sideswipe crossed his arms, pondering hard. "Not right now, no. Just… don't ever trust him, okay? Ever. Even if it looks like you can, don't. It's probably a trap." He gave a jerky shrug. "If you give me time- I might think of something else."

"Tell me immediately if anything comes to you." The tactician sighed, deciding that this exchange had probably been a waste of time. "Thank you, Sideswipe. Sunstreaker. You're relieved of duty for now. I will be taking over guardianship of Jazz."

"Good luck with that," Sideswipe chuckled wryly, sliding from the room like he couldn't wait to escape. Red Alert waited in the hall, pacing anxiously. As they crossed paths, Sideswipe reached out and patted the fellow Autobot's the back in a pseudo-friendly gesture. He left behind a small device that would emit a sharp, high-pitched frequency every couple breems. Red Alert would be in the med bay suffering another meltdown by the end of the joor.

Sunstreaker did not leave directly behind his brother. Instead, he lingering wraith-like in the open doorway.

"Have you something to add?" Prowl enquired, quirking an optic ridge.

"It's not just trust he has an issue with," Sunstreaker said quietly, his pale optics surpassing even Prowl's iciness. Beyond that was the look of someone who saw more than what they let on. "Jazz… isn't the kind of mech who knows what _friends_ are."

Prowl blinked, carefully processing the enigmatic statement. "I will keep that in mind. Thank you."

With one last, lingering stare, Sunstreaker shrugged and left.


	5. Chapter 5

I thought I was going to hit 100 reviews with the last chapter- I was so close! I could _taste it_, you know? XD Darn, if life doesn't work out the way you want it to, eh? XD Maybe I'll hit 200 hundred with the next four chapters? That would be a dream come true, wouldn't it? Just gotta keep hoping and laying my heart at the mercies of kind readers. =P If that happens, I'll do something kindly for everyone... write a J/P one-shot, perhaps? Something with some _spice_ to it, methinks. =P

I want to kindly thank the time and effort and kindness contributed by thoughtful and insightful reviewers of the last chapter. I was, and still am, deeply honoured and flattered that you took the time to write your thoughts out and submit them for this story. I'm not afraid to admit that it is reviewer response that drives my stories. You're all the running river to my water wheel of writing. =D (Could I get any cornier? XD ) So, um, yes.. thank you kindly to **Peacewish, Elita One, Faecat, Alangrieal, PrancingTiger86, Optimus Bob, Marinelife37, Phoebe Turner, Narmoture, flamingmarsh, Bluebird Soaring, Shizuka Taiyou, renegadewriter8, Lecidre, Refracted Imagination, Mirage Shinkiro, Chloo, FunkyFish1991, Queen of the Red Skittles, Sebastian Nyte,** and **lilyoftheval5**!

Read, Review, & Enjoy! =D

**Chapter 5**

Jazz leaned back in his seat, tucking his hands behind his head and comfortably slinging his feet up on the table. "How long we gonna do this, Prowl? You an' Ah both know neither one of us are gonna break. Why keep bringin' meh here?"

Prowl glanced around the barren walls of the interrogation room and even he had to admit its interior got tiresome after so many orns. With a calculated shrug, he replied, "Hope that perhaps some orn you would see the error of your ways and repent?"

Whether or not it was a joke, Jazz laughed. "Good one."

The tactician smirked. "It was, wasn't it?"

His tone was almost humoured, which caused Jazz to pause, staring with almost a look of surprise on his faceplate. And then he let it slide, chuckling. "If Ah didn't know any better, Ah'd say ya were admittin' ta a joke."

"If I was?" A single optic ridge quirked up.

Jazz shook his head, still chuckling. "Always full of surprises, Prowler."

"If I gave all my secrets away at once, they would no longer be surprises," countered Prowl, who continued to wear his barely-there smirk. "What fun would our games be if that were to happen?"

"True, playin' with ya wouldn't be as interestin'." Jazz's visor flashed for a fraction of an astrosecond, a sign Prowl had quickly learned announced the engagement of the mech's attention. Their games together, played on a mental field of parries and thrusts through words, always managed to catch his full attention. His feet slid from the table, leaning forward to prop his elbows on the ledge. "Ya wouldn't be… _fun_ no more."

"We can't have that, now can we?" Prowl's optic ridges rose subtly. Of all the things he'd been called in his lifetime, 'interesting' and 'fun' had never been in the repertoire. It seemed that only with Jazz was it possible.

"No, not at all." Even hidden by his visor, Jazz's optics glowed richly. Even if his aft was magnetically bound to his seat, his movements limited, in a room that no more held his attention than drying paint did, being with Prowl was an endeavour that drew all of his consideration. Even when they were simply trading mental blows in place of a real intellectual sparring match, the experience was _stimulating._ "Ah am your responsibility now, after all. Keepin' meh entertained should be at the top of your list of things ta do."

Prowl almost, _almost_, laughed. "I have such a very busy schedule as it is- reports to see to, chastisements to give. A few things will have to be moved around, but I will see what I can do."

Jazz flashed a sharp grin. "You do that."

"So I will." The tactician inclined his head and very calmly enquired, "And what will you do for me in return?" As if it would be that easy.

The saboteur shrugged. "What would ya like meh ta do?"

"Feel remorse for the hundreds of bots you've killed?"

"Still with the jokes. Ah got a better idea," Jazz smirked. "Give meh access ta that mind of yours, and Ah can take ya on a ride you'll never forget." He caressed his own panel provocatively; a mocking seduction he knew would never be acted on, which was a pity. The things he could do to such an uptight mech... Make him scream. Make him beg. The possibilities were endless.

A small frown passed Prowl's mouthplates. "I'll pass."

"Your loss."

"I can live with that." He lifted one shoulder. "Besides, all you'd want to do is break me. Where is the fun in that?"

"Sometimes it's fun ta be broken when it's consensual." Jazz leaned in, grinning.

Prowl mirrored Jazz's stance, though his faceplate lacked the saboteur's particular brand of playfulness. "If that is how you like it, perhaps you will allow me to break _you_? You might enjoy it."

"If it was you doin' the breakin', Ah know Ah'd enjoy it."

"Are you sure you can handle me?" There was a barely veiled tone of amusement in Prowl's voice, his optics not so cold.

Jazz grinned. "Ah know Ah can take ya."

Their gazes locked. The air sizzled between them in pure challenge, each determined to break the other. Jazz very much enjoyed this new Prowl he found himself sharing most of the orns with. There was an unpredictability to him that was thrilling. Neither dared say anything of the discovery Jazz had made that night in the med bay, but they both knew what lurked and lingered in Prowl's optics. It was as if the existence of Prowl's emotions were a secret that only the two of them knew. A secret they never spoke of. They let it hang and tease and taunt while they exchanged quips the same way duellers exchanged testing blows before going in for the kill.

In a surprise move, Jazz raised his visor so that their locked stares were now unimpeded. "How long are we gonna keep doin' this, Prowler?"

Knowing he referred to their game as a whole rather than their minor staring contest, Prowl replied, "As long as it takes."

"Then we'll be doin' this forever. That ain't somethin' Ah wanna be trapped in, an' you gotta know it ain't logical." He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Ah told ya, Ah'm not cut out ta be an Autobot."

"You already surprised me once by saving my life and coming here. Surprise me again."

A small frown appeared on Jazz's faceplate. "Mah surprises ain't normally good ones. Things like what Ah did won't happen again."

"And yet, from you, it is best to expect the unexpected. Good would be very unexpected from you."

"So would getting out of this chair and ripping out your spark."

"You wouldn't do it," Prowl rebuffed with a small shake of his head.

Jazz tipped his chin defiantly. "Care to tempt fate?"

Calling his bluff, Prowl remotely accessed the magnetic restraints that kept Jazz's aft sealed to his chair. Without ceremony, they were released. With the Deception free, the tactician leaned back in his chair and spread his arms, leaving the way free for a killing strike. Suspiciously, Jazz's gaze darted to the reflective wall where another Autobot could be lurking, watching. His reflection stared back at him. He knew intrinsically that no one was behind the glass.

A feral sense of freedom struck him. He needed to do something wild, needed to make his energon sing again; after so long of playing nice with the Autobots, he needed to feel _alive_ again.

Without warning, Jazz shot up and around the table, his claws sliding up between slates of armour along Prowl's front. Claws hooked there, pulling with enough force for Prowl to feel the vulnerability right into his internals. With a magnetic pulse, he could rip the amour off. Crush the spark. It was such a powerful, wild, thrilling urge. Before he was even conscious of it, he saw the plans form of how he would get away with it- kill Prowl, strip his mind, escape, and bring it all back to the Decepticons. Sell the information byte by byte. It was a very good plan, if he did say so himself.

For some Primus-damned reason, he didn't follow through. Instead, he met Prowl's gaze, curious to find triumph gleaming in those very sharp optics.

"Shouldn't ya be _scared?_" He loomed close, arching over Prowl, shadows darkening his faceplate.

"This is not the first time you've held my life in your hands." Prowl's hands eased around Jazz's wrists, not taking them away, only holding them.

"That don't answer mah question."

Prowl remained silent, still cuffing Jazz's wrists with his long, dextrous fingers.

Nearly sitting in the mech's lap, Jazz leaned closer. "Ah wasn't bluffin', ya know- Ah would've killed ya in a sparkbeat. What would that have proved?"

"Nothing." He looked down to the hands he held, like reins on a runaway train. "The fact that we are still having this conversation proves something very important."

Suddenly very wary, Jazz scowled, glared. "What?"

"You had the chance to take my life- the life of an enemy- only to spare it. That is the mark of an Autobot."

Disgusted that he had played right into the Autobot's trap, Jazz wrenched his hands away. The immediate repulsion that hit him for failing yet again in going head-to-head with his nemesis left a bitter taste in his mouthplates. Glaring, Jazz snapped, "We're done for the orn."

Prowl quirked an optic ridge, amused. "Are we?"

"Just get out of here. Ah'll return myself to mah own cell." He paced to the door, waiting for Prowl to release the lock and let him loose. The tactician only sat and stared, smirking at him, of all things. Frustrated, Jazz opened a panel on his leg and took out two long, stiff wires of copper, inserting them into the cracks of the door at points of his choosing. Pinching each between his fingers, he sent the highest magnetic pulse he could though them. The locking mechanisms on the door sputtered from the shock, and then flung open.

"Don't call on meh again today," he ordered darkly, gliding away.

Once gone, the door shut again, Prowl let out shudder that had taken a lot to contain. "Damn."

His calculations had been off; the bluff had been a risk he should not have taken. It had been incredibly short-sighted of him to believe that Jazz's interest in him would insure his life was safe with the Decepticon indefinitely. The saboteur was not one who could be predicted so easily, as Sideswipe had wisely pointed out, and he would do well to remember that better in the future- lest he lose his life so easily again. The game of give and take they played was not one that he could afford to lose.

However, Prowl did gain one insight from the risk. Up until this point, there had always been a readiness to kill radiating from the Decepticon. It meant truly nothing to destroy the life of everyone and anyone in his path. But now…

This was the first time Prowl had ever seen _reluctance_ to kill in Jazz's gaze.


	6. Chapter 6

Oh my goodness, the response to the last chapter was absolutely amazing! I think we might actually reach 200 reviews by chapter 8! I'm serious when I say there shall be rewards for your efforts, my dears~

Most sincere thanks to the kindest, sweetest, most enthusiastic reviewers in the universe: **Optimus Bob, PrancingTiger86, lilyofhteval5, Jinx, Chloo, Faecat, flamingmarsh, smoking carmels, lastditch, Peacewish, KageOkami666, Elita One, renegadewriter8, Bluebird Soaring, Refracted Imagination, Phoebe Turner, Sebastian Nyte, Mirage Shinkiro, Randomstrike, Flight of Insanity, Queen of the Red Skittle, Grey Grapevines, Lady Tecuma, Shizuka Taiyou, Lecidre**, and **Independent C!** You're all amazing! =D

Shout out to the Jazz/Prowl community! Show your pride! Be proud! I love you all! =D

**Chapter 6**

"What are we up to today, Prowler?" Jazz enquired, even before his keeper had time to set foot in the brig.

Accustomed by now to the semi-amiable greeting, Prowl replied in kind: "The same thing we do every orn."

"Try ta take over the world?"

"It would be too easy for us." He moved to the control panel, tapping in the code to release the force field.

"At least Ah wouldn't be bored." Stretching, letting cramped armour crack comfortably into place, Jazz sauntered out and made his way to the door at the end of the aisle. "Interrogation room one, two, three, or four? Or do Ah get ta choose today?" He swung a dashing smirk over his shoulder.

"None of the above, actually. We're going somewhere else today." Coming alongside the saboteur in the doorway, Prowl swept an arm down the hall in the opposite direction of the interrogation rooms. "This way, if you please."

Jazz canted his head. His smirk faded into something curious, and then suspicious. He did not dare even budge in the offered direction. "Ya gonna tell meh where, or ya gonna keep meh guessin'?"

"I'll let you know when we get there."

Jazz remained planted in the doorway, now frowning. "For all Ah know, ya could be takin' meh ta be executed."

Prowl slanted him a look that spoke of how poorly he thought of that suspicion. "You will never have to worry about that so long as you are under my protection."

Jazz made a noncommittal noise, shrugging.

A storm-grey hand shaped to Jazz's elbow, urging him in the direction they needed to go. There was still resistance, yet Jazz still chose to walk with Prowl.

"Let the destination be a surprise?" the tactician offered.

Jazz shook loose of Prowl's hand, smoothly putting distance between them with an artful sashay. "Ah don't like surprises so much."

"Oh?" Prowl's optic ridges arched disbelievingly.

"Ah don't like surprises when Ah'm not the one givin' them," the saboteur amended with a wry smile.

"That sounds more like you."

Jazz shrugged, loping alongside Prowl's familiar form. Whenever he thought it safe to do so, he turned a studious glance sideward. So long amongst the Autobots had made Prowl's faceplate very familiar. His presence was the same, _familiar_. Worst of all, Jazz found himself uncommonly at ease to be with the tactician, not simply because of Prowl's uncanny ability to focus all of Jazz's attention the moment he walked into a room, but because of some other element he could not name…

Prowl sensed the change in his companion's gait. He slowed to match, glancing to his right. "Something the matter?"

"No, not at all." Jazz picked up his pace to make up for time lost. Prowl matched without saying a word.

The Decepticon didn't need to look back to know there were two Autobots following them, both armed. Their spark resonances told him that one was Bluestreak and the other was Hound. Both were very good snipers. They were also relatively friendly, happy mechs, if past uneasy conversations with them were any indication. By the sound of their footfalls, the ease of air out their vents, they were uncommonly at ease for being the unlucky guards to tail him. They were almost… jaunty? No doubt they were having their own merry private conversation, only a fraction of their attention on the Decepticon they were supposed to be watching.

The inattention was a little insulting. Could it be familiarity that put them at ease? Or was Prowl's presence acting as a protective shield? Worst of all, could he have become _tame_ to them somehow?

Jazz snorted lightly, disgusted by the mere thought.

His long orns spent in isolation had worn him thin, as much as he hated to admit it. Orns spent with only his guards and Prowl as company stretched long and empty. Entertainment came only in spurts when he got a guard he knew he could still rile. One his few true joys in life now was pushing Sunstreaker too far. Sadly, someone had gotten wise and stopped assigning the berserker guard duty. Now Jazz suffered from chronic boredom. It was _exhausting_ to be amongst such boring bots for so long with nothing to sharpen his wit on, bar Prowl.

It wasn't like his situation was physically trying in any way. None had laid a hand to him during his stay, with the exception of Sunstreaker a few times after some particularly nasty needling. Dangerous, yes, but not especially engaging; Jazz's mental acuity wasn't even sorely tested. The Autobots' Tactical and Intelligence divisions seemed to be failing. No one ever asked probing questions of Decepticon intelligence that would give the Autobots the tactical advantage. No access codes. No enemy secrets. Prowl only ever seemed to share space with him for _company._

While the blunt reality was not very taxing, it turned out waiting for orns on end for something to happen was enough to drag him to the brink of snapping out of frustration. If the Decepticons ever found out, he'd be made a laughing stock. Primus forbid Megatron ever found out one of his star warriors was incapacitated by _niceness._

The more Jazz thought of this as he snuck studying-suspicious glances at Prowl, the more he hated his situation.

Familiarity and passivity had bred into an atmosphere of laxness. His guards no longer shook uncontrollably when they saw him. They didn't lean away when he cast them a sly glance. In fact, some came right up to the force field as free as you please. Yes, they were still armed, still wary, but not as much as they once had been. They struck up conversations, traded news. Some Autobots actually came of their own free will to visit him. Among the most prominent were Sideswipe and a few shady characters around base that he may or may not have had previous dealings with in another time, another place.

To the Autobots, Jazz was no longer an object of abject fear. He was just that mech living in the brig who was pretty cool to talk to, even if he could kill you any time he wanted and no one would ever find the frame.

To himself…he didn't know what to think anymore.

He didn't feel like he was ahead anymore. Actually, he was starting to feel like he was a step or two behind. Where had his unshakable grace gone? His quicksilver mind? His cleverness? Where had all his plans, backup plans, and plans of tomfoolery, skulduggery, and Cybertron-shattering chaos gone? _Poof!_ Into thin air, that's where! Utterly drained away into an ether of dull greyness.

He was _Jazz_, for Primus' sake! It was more like a title than a designation, that was how infamous he was. Did that mean nothing anymore? One of the most feared Decepticons Megatron had under his wing! A mech not to be tangled with! A saboteur who had no match! A bot with no spark but a mind sharp enough to cut through even the toughest armour! What did that mean to anyone around here anymore?

"You're unusually distracted this orn," Prowl commented, waiting for a lift to appear that would take them to the floors above.

"Is that so?" Jazz internally bristled, hiding any external irritation behind his usual air. A lot of good that did, since Prowl appeared to see through any charade he put on.

"Yes, it is." The lift came down, the doors opened. They entered together, just the two of them. Bluestreak and Hound would have to wait for the next lift to come. Pressing the appropriate button for the floor he wanted- one of the higher floors, Jazz noted- the tactician eased back against the far wall. Their shoulders nearly touched. "You have not tried to strike up your usual conversations with me. It's been a while since you have, in fact."

Jazz's mouthplates curled into something self-deprecating. "How nice of ya ta notice."

Prowl inclined his head, ignoring the tone. "You have not been yourself for a while. Are you alright?"

"Is that any of your business?" the silver mech shot back.

"You're my responsibility, remember?" Prowl intoned, though he refrained from sounding condescending with the statement. "Anything and everything pertaining to you is my business."

Physical and mental health included. Even if Jazz had not caught on to their arrangement by now, perhaps blinded by his constant expectancy of Decepticon tactics- his own tactics he used on Prowl in attempts to break him- Prowl had long since eased beyond the responsibilities of interrogator alone. He concerned himself with other matters of his would-be prisoner's experience. A part of their meeting today, the reason why Prowl was taking them both to an as-of-yet undisclosed location, was all a part of that great sphere of responsibilities he chose to take on for Jazz's sake.

"Doesn't that sound borderline obsessive?" Jazz mocked.

"I'm sure you would know," Prowl replied in kind.

Jazz frowned, saying nothing.

A muted chime and a minor jostling of the lift announced their arrival on the destined floor. Stepping out together, Prowl laid a hand to Jazz's elbow once more and urged him in the right direction. Just behind them, the second lift chimed and admitted Bluestreak and Hound to the floor. At the far end of the corridor, the familiar shapes of one red Autobot and one gold lounged against opposite walls, obviously waiting for them. Upon seeing the approaching bots, Sideswipe saluted and his brother sneered. Jazz prepared himself for a fun little encounter, but the twins slipped around the corner to their next appointed outposts in wake of a single gesture from Prowl. When Prowl and Jazz came near again, they slipped away again like a game.

Once or twice, Jazz met Sideswipe's optic, finding a curious glint in the Autobot's stare.

Aside from their four accompanying guards, there was no one else in the hallways. Scuff marks in the floor would indicate high-traffic areas, yet everywhere was devoid of any and all activity. It was disturbing. There was no one to catch Jazz's attention. Nothing to let his mind wander. Absolutely no stimulation or distraction whatsoever. It was terribly _isolating_. Just like being in the brig. Four walls, a floor, and a ceiling; it all started to feel like it was shrinking in on you after a while.

If there was one thing Jazz did not handle well, even if he was loath to admit it, it was isolation.

"Did you evacuate the entire floor?" Jazz enquired, glancing to his companion.

"It was for everyone's safety." Prowl replied, looking straight ahead. "You understand, of course."

"Of course." He understood, yes, but that did nothing to ease the frustration.

Prowl slowed his pace, which Jazz matched. They paused before a nondescript door boasting of stencilled lettering titling the room _Observatory Deck_. A flutter of true surprise struck Jazz as he stared at the door. Bluestreak came to stand at one side of the entrance, Hound at the other. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker took up guarded positions at opposite ends of the short corridor. While their faceplates were neutral, except Bluestreak's, who wore his battle mask instead to obscure his features, the Autobots' optics glittered strangely as they cast discreet glances around.

"_This_ is your surprise?"

"Indeed." The tactician nodded, letting the door hiss open. He swept a gesture to invite the saboteur to enter ahead of him. "After you?"

Jazz slipped in and immediately made his way to the shining crystalline windows that served as an entire wall for the long, narrow room. The lights were all off, allowing for the brilliance of Iacon at night to shine in all hues of silver, white, and blazing red Autobot sigils. Whether it was because of that particular night or because of Jazz's too-long incarceration below ground, the stars appeared to shine extra brightly as he stared up at them. The night sky stretched out forever in every direction. So very, very wide and deep compared to the confines of the Autobots' brig. Everywhere he looked, there was activity. Bots down on the ground bustling here and there, or else training in small groups; the air teemed with fliers, likewise some were alone flying every which way, and others were in small flocks performing aerial manoeuvres. Although the observatory deck was soundproof, he could easily imagine the ebb and flow of noise drifting through his audios.

A very heavy, constricting weight was suddenly lifted from his shoulders.

Prowl paused as he heard the unmistakable sound of a sigh. One glance in Jazz's direction let him know all he needed. The cagey tension he had been watching build eased away. One clawed hand rested against the window, his visor drawn back to allow an unimpeded view. Satisfied with what he saw, Prowl moved to the only seating arrangement in the room- a single couch left facing the window. Everything else had been cleared out the orn before.

"Why bring meh here?" Jazz suddenly asked, his optics still fixed to the outside world. If he refocused his gaze, he could make out Prowl's transparent reflection in the bright crystal.

"I've noticed throughout our encounters that you are not the type of mech who takes isolation well," Prowl replied. "To put it bluntly, you were lonely." His gaze was as neutral as his voice, optics focused on some distant point on the horizon.

Jazz made a disdainful noise.

The tactician inclined his head, ignoring his company's sour stance. "I couldn't very well bring you into a populated sector of the base to relieve you of that burden- there was no telling what kinds of chaos could come of that- so I decided that bringing you here was the next best thing."

"Why?"

Prowl's optic ridges arched. "The observatory deck seemed logical enough. From here, you can see the population at work, as well as much of the base and beyond if you were feeling claustrophobic, all without the risk of you-."

"Being mahself?"

"Yes." Dark shoulders shrugged minutely. "I'll admit that this not a perfect solution, but it was the best option available."

Jazz laughed. "It's more than whatever Ah was expectin'. But why bring meh here at all? Why not just leave me in the brig?" He traced a pattern on the window. "Why go to all this trouble for a prisoner?"

"You are not a typical prisoner."

The saboteur cast a sly glance over his shoulder. "Is that your way of sayin' Ah'm special?"

Prowl snorted quietly. "Your word, not mine."

Jazz chuckled quietly, turning back to the outside world. With every new detail, his mind raced anew, became refreshed, cleared out the cobwebs and started plotting double-time. He thought of a way to escape to each and every exit he saw; ways to booby-trap the entire yard so that any Autobot stupid enough to come racing after him would only have the memory of Jazz's shiny silver aft in their heads before they died. He could even imagine smashing the window right now and scaling his way down using a clever mix of magnetism, acrobatics, and luck. How good it felt to be crazy again.

"Ah guess Ah should be grateful," the saboteur intoned airily.

"How about we consider ourselves even?" Prowl offered. "I still had a few debts to you to pay."

"Alright," the silver mech said. "We're even."

"Good." Prowl smiled mutedly, a gesture so minute that Jazz almost missed it watching the reflections in the window.

With his mind now back, energized, and working to capacity once more, Jazz was instantly off on a thousand flying trails as to what that single ghost of a smile could mean. What did any of this mean? Prowl was too logical, too ordered, to straightforward, to do anything that didn't have a specific meaning or reasoning behind it. There was more to this excursion than relieving Jazz of his discomfort.

"Why today?" the saboteur suddenly wondered.

"I would have thought that'd be obvious." By his tone, he really was surprised the saboteur had not figured it out.

Jazz finally turned, leaning his back against the window. "Is that so?"

Prowl sat calmly in his seat, watching the silver mech's silhouette as he was outlined by the ambient lights of the base. "Quite."

"Care ta enlighten meh?"

"I would be a fool to miss the opportunity." His optics slid from that neutral point on the horizon to match Jazz's uncovered optics, the light shining in them was rather more meaningful than intense. "I spent 97 orns as a prisoner of war in Straxis before you freed me."

"And?"

"As of today, you have spent 97 orns as _my_ prisoner."

Jazz's optics flashed bright as he caught on the tactician's train of thought. "An' now ya mean ta give meh mah freedom, to an extent."

Again, there was Prowl's ghost of a smile, barely there.

A very strange feeling welled up in the saboteur's chest as he absorbed that rare smile. It wasn't just the Autobots who had become familiar and comfortable with him. Without realizing it, he had become at ease with them. With Prowl most of all. Unable to make sense of it, Jazz spun away again, his fist coming up to bang against the window.

"_Why?"_ he demanded.

"Because." Prowl had anticipated confusion, keeping in mind Sunstreaker's strangely wise advice when this charade first began. Developing trust and constructing a friendship with a mech who abhorred both and was looking for neither was one of the most difficult tactical manoeuvres Prowl had ever attempted. It was compounded by the fact that he himself was no great expert in the field of nurturing friendships, whether it was with comrades or enemies.

With a frustrated noise bursting from his vents, Jazz swung away from the window to pace the length of the room. "What are ya doin', Prowl?"

The tactician blinked. "I am sitting."

Jazz bristled. "Don't play stupid with meh. Ya know what Ah'm asking'." One hand was thrown up into the air, gesturing sharply. "You're the head tactical advisor here. You're supposed ta be my interrogator, but fer as long as Ah've been here, ya haven't bothered ta interrogate meh. Ya don't ask any questions about the Decepticons. Ya don't try ta get inta my head. Ya don't even bat meh around a bit ta soften meh up! Instead, ya waste time and resources keepin' meh company." His pacing halted as he zeroed in on the storm-grey mech. "What are ya really about, Autobot?"

"For a mech as infamously clever as you, I find it strange that you have not come to a conclusion on your own," Prowl intoned. He leaned forward, casting the saboteur a contemplative look. "This has never been about interrogating you."

"Then what has this been about?" he spat.

"That's for you to decide."

Another frustrated noise rose from the silver mech as he swung back into his pacing.

Prowl watched for a while longer, contemplated the sleek form as it passed through shadow and light. Deciding he had looked his fill, he reached into subspace to procure the one cube of high-grade he had, for once, not confiscated from Sideswipe but instead asked for. The subtle glow caught Jazz's attention, having him turn to warily observe as the tactician brought out two smaller cubes and filled them.

Prowl held one of the cubes out, the one with more high-grade in it. "You could probably use this right about now."

Jazz nodded tightly, gliding forward to snatch the cube and down its contents in one go. The taste was familiar and rich. It settled his nerves marginally.

Partaking of his own cube, Prowl did well to hide the small victory he just witnessed. Jazz did not wait for him to drink first to prove the high-grade wasn't poisoned. Even if it was only an unconscious gesture, he had _trusted_ that his drink held no poison.

Staring down at his now empty cube, Jazz appeared to come to the same conclusion. Unlike his counterpart, he was not the least bit pleased the realization. Crushing the cube and tossing it to a shadowed corner, he crossed to the windows and paced the length of them again. He felt just like a trapped animal, wild with pent up energy. Freedom was so damned close, yet even with the cage door cracked open he wasn't making a move for it!

Beyond the high walls of the immediate base, he caught sight of a small lightshow erupting on the ground. Everyone who had been milling around the courtyards or circling the air rushed into the burgeoning action, bringing their weapons to bear.

"The Decepticons have been tryin' ta get meh back, haven't they?"

Prowl nodded, observing what he could of the fight below. A stray plasma blast hit the wall near them, rattling the windows. "According to Intelligence, an order was issued shortly after your defection for your spark to be brought to Megatron, dead or alive."

Jazz nodded grimly. He expected as much. "They'll want meh more dead than alive."

"We have been taking every precaution so that does not happen. However, your side has been extremely persistent, and we have yet to discover where they have been hiding. Until we do, they'll continue to have the advantage of coming out of nowhere on us."

Jazz's gaze turned pensive. "Protecting meh has been costin' you."

Prowl inclined his head. "True."

"The other commanders here- they don't like how much you're riskin', do they?"

"They question my decisions, especially when those decisions concern you. I am certainly no current favourite of anyone's." He paused, considering what he was to say next. The timbre of his voice changed ever-so-slightly as he said, "There are a few who believe we should hand you over. Ironhide is still of the mind to execute you."

"Ah bet he is." Jazz snorted humourlessly.

"Optimus Prime has offered to transport you to Epsilon base for protection."

"Transporting meh anywhere is a risk."

Prowl shook his head. "Keeping you anywhere is a risk as well, but it is one that I'm willing to take. If you go, I will accompany you."

Jazz's optics flashed for a moment. "If ya go ta Epsilon, you'll be there with meh indefinitely. Won't ya lose that shiny new position as tactical commander?"

"Perhaps."

Jazz nodded, letting the information sink in.

Several Autobot aerials were shot down, disappearing on the other side of the wall. At least one or two had to be dead, maybe more. It could be said that they were defending their base, their friends, their faction, but they were also risking their lives for _him_. He had done no kindness for them, given them no help, and probably would still stab them in the back the moment they looked away, yet he watched as they put their lives on the line all because the enemy wanted him back.

"The Decepticons- Ah know where they're hidin'," the saboteur suddenly announced.

"Do you?"

"Ah can show ya." He turned, crossed the distance between them, and reached for his interface panel. Prowl's optics flashed hard and cold to the panel, automatically tensing. Their gazes locked, the air heating a bare fraction as they tested the power play between them. Jazz leaned a fraction closer. _"Trust meh."_

A look of something akin to surprise flashed across the tactician's faceplate; he may have been scheming for Jazz's trust, but it had not occurred to him that he may have to offer his own in return. Letting out a steadying jet of air through his vents, Prowl gave a near-imperceptible nod. His interface panel clicked open.

"The moment you try anything suspicious-."

"It'll already be too late." Jazz smirked, his cable already primed between his claws.

Without ceremony, they connected. The moment their systems synchronized, Jazz moved like lightning, knowing exactly where to go and what to do when he got there. He was aided by Prowl, who lit up the appropriate pathways so as to draw the other in the right direction. The needed information was transferred in record time. Less than an astrosecond, in fact. The moment the file was offered, accepted, and then transferred, they disconnected. Jazz shifted to the far end of the couch and sat down. Prowl was rigid as he digested the new information, battle computer activating, the logistics of a thousand different options assaulting him all at once. When one came to the forefront with the highest chance of success with the lowest risk of fatalities, it was expedited to the chosen Autobots best suited to carrying out the formation.

Out in the courtyard, a small contingent of fliers broke off from the immediate battle, falling back into a tight formation. They took a wide circle over the entire courtyard, tipping their wings to the windows as they passed the observatory deck. With a burst of white-hot flame from their afterburners, they shot out over the battle on their way to roust some Decepticons from a previously-secret hidey-hole.

Jazz contemplated the streaks of fading light on the horizon, and then looked down at his own chest where his Decepticon decal shone proudly. He was no Autobot, that was for sure. He wasn't sure he could be a Decepticon anymore, either.

"Ah guess this is as good a time as any…"

"What do you-?" Prowl froze mid-sentence, watching as Jazz's faction decals faded. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

Jazz smirked hollowly. "Ah'm not sure about anythin' right now." His glanced to the side, revealing his modified optical settings; no longer red, but not blue either. Plain white. Neutral. His Decepticon signature modulator shut off definitively. "First Ah walked away from mah faction, now Ah just helped yours. Is that enough ta call meh crazy?"

Prowl shrugged, replying matter-of-factly, "You were already crazy."

Jazz nodded. "Ah guess Ah was."

Together, they settled back on the couch and watched the fight fizzle out. The Autobots sent to raid the Decepticons' encampment must have pulled off their sneak attack. With the Decepticons realizing they no longer had backup or a safe place to fall back to, they were quick to get out of firing range. Autobot fliers still airborne pulled victory laps around the courtyard. A few stopped by the observatory windows, transforming long enough to salute the two mechs within before reverting to alt mode and zooming off again.

"So…" the newly-Neutral mech intoned.

"So?" replied the Autobot.

"Ya wanna interface again? Ah can think of a thousand different things that are more fun than what we just did."

"No."

"It's still your loss."

"I'll still live."

They sat in silence for a long while after that, their hands _almost_ touching.


	7. Chapter 7

I'm so sorry that it's taken me so long with this chapter. I hope that everyone is still on board for reading and reviewing~ By the looks of things, we might actually get to 200 by chapter 8, which means a J/P one-shot dedicated to all of you. =)

My sincerest thanks to everyone who has shown their support by reviewing! You have all been my inspiration and reason to continue with this story~ Thank you so much to **chickentyrant5, Smoking Caramels, Marinelife37, Bluebird Soaring, KamiOkagi666, Peacewish, Kathrine, Elita One, Faecat, Optimus Bob, PrancingTiger86, phoebe turner, JinxGrl, flammingmarsh, shadowblade-tara, Randomstrike, Shinigami-Sama1, renegadewriter8, Refraction Imagination, Queen of the Red Skittle, SternEase, Mieaou, Anon, Mirage Shinkiro, Lecidre, FunkyFish1991, Lady Tecuma, Imbri of the Moon, FoghornLeghorn83, Chloo, Shizuka Taiyou**, and **Gatekat**! You're all too wonderful! Like the wind beneath my wings~ *minus the corny eye-rolling that a lines like that brings*

**Chapter 7**

Jazz leaned back casually in his chair, his legs crossed at the ankles as they stretched out before him. He wasn't sitting in a particularly comfortable chair, but seeing as his aft wasn't magnetically attached to it, there was no sense in complaining. Yet.

The offensive piece of furniture was nothing but two slabs of metal welded together at a ninety-degree angle with four sturdy poles welded to the bottom to hold it up. It was the embodiment of the basic definition of a chair, but so wholly devoid of any comforts in the design that it was more like a cruel punishment to sit in it. The fact that such a plain and utilitarian chair existed very nearly offended Jazz if it wasn't for the fact that Prowl was the owner of said chair and it suited a mech like him to own a chair like that. Because Prowl was the owner, Jazz sat in it without complaint.

But, if at any moment Prowl suddenly decided to vacate his own seat for whatever reason, Jazz was going to steal it faster than the tactician's logic circuits could compute. He would not be held responsible for whatever happened after. Unfortunately, given how determinedly Prowl had remained in his seat since the moment they had sat down together, the tactician knew the score as well and was not willing to lose.

"Ah could be doing somethin' interestin' right now," the saboteur intoned boredly. "Ah could be doin' anything right now."

Prowl did not deviate from the torrents of information he was currently downloading. His attention was firmly fixed on the latest intel delivered from Intelligence & Espionage even as he answered, "Your definition of 'interesting' has already caused enough trouble around here."

Jazz smirked. "Can Ah help it if bots around here get so jumpy around meh?"

"No, but it does not help when they find you standing at the foot of their berths in the middle of the night _watching them_."

"Is Ratchet still grippin' about that?" Jazz sighed, clearly amused rather than chagrined. "Ya already searched meh and mah room- Ah didn't take nothin'. Ya know, at least the Decepticons let things like that go after they throw a couple punches at someone. You bots hold grudges."

Prowl sighed and shook his head. "I believe it's the personal invasion that bothers bots around here the most. They don't like it when they find you in their rooms, especially if you're watching them recharge."

"It doesn't bother you," Jazz pointed out.

"I am the exception," Prowl replied, setting one data pad aside in order to begin downloading the next. "I go into recharge expecting you to do something to harass me."

"Should Ah be flattered that Ah'm the last thing ya think about before rechargin'?" Jazz wondered, laughing.

"Please, don't be." He blinked, and a flash of information crossed his optics before it was committed to memory for later appraisal. "The rest of Iacon's populace goes into recharge trusting me to keep them safe from you. When someone finds you standing at the end of their berths, it means I have failed and the Autobots lose confidence in my abilities."

"What a shame," the saboteur shrugged, though said in a way that clearly showcased his apathy towards the plight.

"Indeed," growled the tactician. "Not to mention that while you keep up the behaviour, the Autobots will continue to see you as a threat, despite your Neutral status."

"They should know that it's not mah alliance that makes meh a threat, it's meh," Jazz replied firmly. "No one should forget that."

Prowl finally paused in his downloading in order to meet Jazz's steady gaze. "And it is precisely that attitude that keeps you here with me, doing nothing interesting. No one here is stupid enough to trust you to your own devices for more than an astrosecond, if even that. Until the orn comes when you discover that madness and backstabbing is not the only way to live, you are stuck with me."

Jazz's gaze narrowed into a glare, though hidden behind his visor. Prowl felt the black glare, though he ignored it as he returned his attentions back to his work.

"In that case, Ah'm gonna be stuck ta ya for a real long time, Prowl," growled the silver bot.

"So be it," replied Prowl. "I am already accustomed to your company as it is."

With a huff, Jazz looked away and chose not to reply.

For the next little while, the saboteur contented himself with the study of Prowl's office. Not that he hadn't memorized the place from the last dozen or so orns he'd been trapped in the room with the tactician. He would kill for a window right about then, granted he could kill for a lot less anyways. The office was as utilitarian as the chair he was currently sitting in. Plain walls, with a plain desk, with two chairs- one relatively comfortable one for Prowl, and the sparkless construction of torture meant for Jazz and everyone else. The room was lit by a plain light on the ceiling and a second sitting on the corner of the desk; there were no personal objects anywhere to identify Prowl by, which, in a way, identified him clearly enough. Every object on his desk was neat and ordered. Not a single object out of place or without purpose.

It made Jazz want to lean forward and sweep the desk clean just to see what Prowl would do.

Bored once again, this time to a degree where he wished he was being tortured by his interrogator just to break the monotony, Jazz instead took the initiative to steal something. It didn't even really count as stealing since it was lying right in front of him, out in the open, practically _begging_ to be picked up and looked at. Nevertheless, Prowl immediately stopped what he was doing and extended his hand in a demand for the data pad's return.

"That is sensitive information you are handling," said the tactician sternly. "Please return it."

"Now why would Ah do somethin' like that?" wondered Jazz, leaning back in his seat and propping his feet on the edge of Prowl's desk. "Ah'd like ta think ya know meh a little better than that; Ah don't do things just because ya ask."

"Jazz, please, return that immediately," Prowl ordered tightly. Clearly, he was not in a mood to be messed with, which meant Jazz was instantly in a mood to be messing with him.

"Maybe later," the saboteur hummed.

"This is absolutely no time for your games. I have yet to process the information on it, and an assessment of it is due by tomorrow so the Intelligence & Espionage division can decide to further act on it or not."

"Ya want meh ta help?" Jazz offered slyly.

Prowl hesitated on the offer, weighing every option. Eventually, he said, "I'm not sure that would be appropriate…"

"Really?" The saboteur pointed to himself. "Ex-Decepticon an' all that, Ah might know a thing or two about mah old haunts. Ah could be very appropriate."

"Yes, but-."

"Isn't the whole point of havin' meh here all about the tactical advantage Ah could give ya?"

"To a degree, yes-."

"Well, here Ah am offering," Jazz said, spreading his arms to give a visual of the very valuable services he was offering- namely, _himself_. He was, indeed, a very valuable service, one that was so damned bored out his slagging mind that he didn't mind pawning himself to the Autobot just for something to do.

Prowl pursed his mouthplates. "Did you not just claim that you wished to remain a _threat_ to the Autobots? Helping us against your ex-faction is hardly a way to engender fear."

Jazz shrugged, letting his arms fall to his sides. "Ah'm not lookin' ta help no one but mahself; ya said it yerself- reports need ta be in tomorrow. A second mind set on the stuff should help. After that, you'll be free ta entertain meh ta mah spark's desire." He flicked his hand commandingly. "It's all about meh, after all."

Prowl's mouth curved in a decidedly dry smile. "Yes, I have gathered as much."

"An' don't ya worry about mah reputation either. Ah don't mind puttin' in the extra effort into harassing some bots ta remind them who's boss," Jazz added amiably. "Can't let them forget, ya know?"

"Because that would be such a shame if they did." Prowl rolled his optics and sat back down. "I'm not going to deter you from this, am I?"

"Not really." Jazz leaned forward, his grin turning suggestive. "Give into meh already an' we'll all be better for it. Ah could make it good for ya."

"I'm sure you could, but we're going to focus on _work_ right now," Prowl stressed, optics narrowing.

"Meaning we can focus on _other things_ later?" Jazz teased, grinning wider.

Prowl continued to glare flatly. "Only if 'later' means 'never' in this context."

"Nah, I was kind of thinkin' 'later' as in 'after your shift we'll lock the door and test how sturdy your desk is'," Jazz replied. His visor was still down, but he gave the distinct impression of waggling his optic ridges suggestively.

"_That_," Prowl growled, "will _never_ happen."

"Never say never, Prowler- it only tempts bots to try harder," Jazz warned wickedly.

"Not all bots, just you," the tactician sighed. He got up from his seat, walked around the desk, and plucked the stolen data pad away from the saboteur. He turned it over in his hands, examining it for any possible damage even though he knew there was none. He did note one exception, though. "You downloaded its contents already, didn't you?"

"Maybe," Jazz shrugged.

Prowl let his gaze land steadily on Jazz, studying him with a slight frown that belied a wry amusement he did not want to reveal. "You downloaded _all _of the data pads, didn't you?"

Again, the saboteur shrugged. "Had to keep mahself entertained somehow. Ya didn't assume Ah would just sit here nicely this whole time, did ya?"

A very interesting glint crossed Prowl's optics, and the hint of a satisfied smirk touched his faceplate. "I assumed nothing about you, Jazz. What I _knew_, on the other hand…" He knew if he had asked Jazz to help confirm the intel brought in my Mirage's mechs, Jazz would have invariably refused. Direct requests would never work on a mech like him. Laying out the right temptations and letting Jazz come to his own decisions tended to work so much better.

Jazz's visor flashed sharply. "Well played," he conceded.

"I thought so." Moving back around his desk to his own seat, he moved over to the side to allow room for another presence at his side. "If you're still willing to help, you can come over to my side if you like."

"Ah can't decide if that's a double entendre or not," Jazz smirked. Nevertheless, he rose from his seat and dragged himself and his chair to the other side of the desk. "An' on second thought, Ah don't really care right now."

Prowl smirked, revealing nothing. He selected an assortment of data pads whose information he had already been through and slid the pile over to Jazz. "You're familiar with Polyhex, are you not?"

"Sure, Ah know it enough." He sorted through the data, recalling all of the information he'd downloaded earlier, comparing it to his own personal knowledge.

"Will you be able to confirm some of this information? Obviously you will not be up-to-date with your ex-faction, but-."

"Ah can do it."

Prowl blinked at such an uncharacteristically short answer, and then nodded. "I'll trust that you can."

It was no surprise that Jazz could do his part in reviewing and elaborating the information, and he did it with his usual flair. He wasn't from Polyhex, but he knew the base on a peripheral basis from downloading schematics of it. As it stood, Jazz had the schematics of _all_ major Decepticon strongholds, plus the location of a number of tactically important outposts. He had it all stashed away in his head in the eventuality that he might have to use it against his faction some orn. He had always imagined him using the information for his own gains; never in his wildest dreams did he think he'd be helping the enemy. His familiarity with Decepticon rule and hierarchy came of the utmost importance in understanding how Polyhex operated; he surmised there would be several differences, seeing as each base held its own distinct personality, but the basics of operation should be the same.

"This is excellent," Prowl would say occasionally as he took note of something Jazz just said. "We could have been scouting that place for orns and never known about that!"

Jazz would smirk and shrug. The first few times, he would say something like, "Ah'm Decepticon, remember? Ah got the inside scoop." But after saying something akin to that once or twice, they simply settled into a rhythm that was wordless yet comfortable.

Prowl was quick and efficient in catching everything of importance that fell from Jazz's mouthplates, just as he was quick and efficient in everything else he did. Once or twice, their optics would stray to each other, their gazes would hold, and then they quickly returned to their tasks.

Sometimes Prowl would ask for further elaboration, which Jazz found himself giving readily enough. He was careful not to give away everything- he had to keep _some_ secrets for himself- but gave enough to satisfy the question. He occasionally lied, and sometimes he tweaked the truth, but never before had he ever done so with consideration to the bot he was lying to, or even to the bots that could get hurt as a result. That alone was a very odd feeling, quite similar to the feeling he had experienced the night he had first relinquished his Decepticon title.

It was the feeling that he wasn't the same as he first was, and he wasn't too sure who he was becoming.

Pausing in his mental perusal of patchy intel on a south-eastern outpost in Polyhex's old Yvv-ve district, Jazz decided to steal another sideward glance at the mech he was with. He was mildly surprised to find that he was being watched in return. When they realized they had each others gaze, they did not look away as they had before. Jazz revved quietly, settling back in his chair to better face Prowl.

"Is _this_ part of your plan, too?" the saboteur asked quietly. He couldn't quantify '_this_' any better than a vague notion; they were not so ignorant as to deny that there was something between them, but for all their mental acuity, neither possessed the mind to comprehend exactly what it was.

Prowl straightened, opening his mouthplates to deliver an answer, only to be interrupted by a loud voice in the hall-

"_Optimus Prime, sir, um… no, really, I don't think you should go in there-!" _

Smokescreen's voice was easily recognizable through the walls. The near-panicked tones he was using alerted the mechs within Prowl's office to the growing distress the nearing tactician was under.

"_Seriously- Prime, if Ironhide, __**or anyone**__, finds out what you're doing-." _

The door to Prowl's office hissed open-

"-they're going to lynch me!" Smokescreen finished.

Before stepping into Prowl's office, Optimus turned over his shoulder to regard the pleading tactician behind him. "They won't do anything to you. You're worrying for nothing."

Smokescreen's gaze shot to Jazz before returning to the Prime's. "With that mech, there's a lot more to worry about than just 'nothing'."

"I'll be fine." With a clear dismissal that Smokescreen had every intention of ignoring, Optimus turned his attentions back to the occupants of the room. He nodded to each of them. "Prowl. Jazz."

As could be expected, Prowl shot to his feet in order to bow. "Optimus Prime, sir! This- this is quite unexpected!"

Jazz took this opportunity to steal Prowl's chair and seat himself comfortably in it. He ignored all the usual formalities one generally went through when encountering a respected figure; if he had never bothered to pull that slag with Megatron, then he sure as pit wasn't about to start for the Lord Protector's half-bit brother.

"I would like to think that I don't have to announce my presence where I go," Optimus chuckled, entering the office by a few paces. "Formalities like that are bound to drive a bot crazy."

A brief look crossed Prowl's faceplate, which he quickly arranged into a neutral expression. It wasn't his place to inform the Prime that formalities were necessary for the proper operation of a military hierarchy. Instead, he straightened just a fraction more and asked,

"To what to I owe this honour?"

"I came here to speak with Jazz, actually," the Prime replied easily.

"With… Jazz?" It took a moment to try and compute the logic. It didn't add up.

"Yes." Optimus continued to smile, even chuckling a bit at the perplexed look that crossed his tactical advisor's faceplate. Inclining his head towards the ex-Decepticon, he asked, "I hope that won't be a problem?"

The saboteur shrugged. "Wasn't doin' anythin' important."

"That shouldn't matter." Prowl's neutral expression tightened, though he did well to hide the frown he was internally wearing. "You shouldn't be left alone with him, sir," he said, hoping the Prime would see reason. "Jazz may claim Neutrality and asylum under our protection, but he himself is still an incredibly dangerous individual. I cannot permit you to place yourself under such danger. Allow either me or Smokescreen to stay for the duration of your exchange."

Smokescreen huffed, crossing his arms and leaning against the open doorframe. "I say both of us should stay. I don't trust that mech one bit- especially not with Prime."

"Ah'm flattered," Jazz said, smirking.

Optimus cast an amused glance between the two tacticians. "And I am surprised you think so little of me."

The two Autobots jerked at the address, though Prime raised his hand to stave off any refutes. Jazz, for his part, grew even more entertained by the exchange.

"I am a perfectly capable warrior on the battlefield," Optimus said, acting as the epitome of reasonableness. "If I can hold my own out there, is it not reasonable that I could defend myself in here?"

"You shouldn't trust that Jazz would fight fair," Prowl said.

"He's right, ya know. Ah don't play fair," Jazz helpfully added.

The Prime's optic ridges arched. "I'm told I shouldn't trust you, but here you are in the spark of Iacon, sequestered away in the office of our head tactical advisor who is in possession of some of Iacon's most guarded information, while you are only a short walk away from our command center, and here I find you sitting at a desk side-by-side with said advisor as he _trusts_ you to assist him with his work. Is that not a _little_ hypocritical?"

Jazz turned to Prowl, grinning wickedly. "He's got a point, ya are being a little hypocritical here."

Prowl glared down at him darkly. "He just accused you of being helpful and trustworthy. I'm surprised you're not insulted."

Jazz placed a hand above his spark. "Oh, Ah am- deeply and sincerely insulted, but Ah know that havin' a little alone time with your precious Prime will bother ya the most, which is why Ah'm all for it." His grin turned even more wicked. "And if Ah do kill him, Ah'll do it nice and quick so he don't feel a thing."

The Prime's smile turned wry. "How kind of you; I would hate to die slowly and painfully."

"_Prime!"_ Prowl exclaimed, shocked. "Absolutely not! Not an Autobot on this base, nor on the planet, would allow you to place yourself in such danger! You are too valuable! Where is Ironhide? Or Ratchet, for that matter? Where are any of the other commanders? I'm sure none of them would have agreed to this!"

Optimus was silent for a moment, allowing Prowl's words to hang in the air. It was in the silence that the tactician seemed to realize that he had overstepped his boundaries. When the silence had stretched on for long enough, the Prime crossed the short distance between him and the desk in order to lean against the front. He was not threatening as some mechs would be when looming so high and large. Instead, he was indulgent and endlessly patient as he said,

"I may not hold as high a regard for social hierarchy as you, Prowl, but I am still the Prime. No matter their opinions, everyone here still answers to me. That includes you."

"Yes, of course, sir." Prowl sucked in a sharp draft of air, finding himself overwhelmed by his own transgression. He moved to fall back in his chair, to at least find something solid to latch onto and catch his wits, only to discover an astrosecond too late that his chair was not there anymore. With a yelp, he toppled backwards and landed with a crash.

Another moment of silence followed, though this one was of an entirely different manner. Prowl was left stunned on the floor, blinking up at Optimus as the Prime stared back with a twitching faceplate. Smokescreen was the first to lose his cool, snorting once before falling into the hall in order to laugh himself silly. Optimus broke into a short-lived fit of chuckles, though they were tempered out of respect for Prowl and his sensibilities. Poor mech looked absolutely bewildered. Jazz laughed freely and richly, but at least he was kind enough to stand and offer his hand to Prowl, hauling the poor mech to his feet.

"Take a walk, Prowler," the saboteur ordered laughingly. "Go on, ya need one. Go." He gave him a shove for good measure.

Still stunned by his own humiliation, Prowl stumbled to the door. He gripped the doorframe and looked back. "I shouldn't leave you two alone. It's not right."

"Your precious Prime will be fine with meh," Jazz assured, flicking his hand dismissively. "An' if ya find a scratch on him, ya can kill meh personally. Just go already."

Smokescreen was still chuckling as he took Prowl's arm. "I don't trust the mech worth a damn, but a short walk won't hurt anyone. Come on, Commander." With a light tug, they were away, the door hissing shut behind them.

Now alone in the office together, the previous humour of Prowl's fall vanished. Jazz leaned over to snag the uncomfortable chair he had initially been sitting in and tossed it to the Prime. The other mech caught it and set it down.

"Might as well sit, Prime. Ah'm not about to stand on ceremony for ya." Jazz collapsed back into his seat and swung his feet up onto Prowl's desk. Smirking a little at such stunning disregard, Optimus sat though refrained from kicking his feet up.

"So you are the great and terrible Jazz of the Decepticons," the Prime said, canting his head ever so slightly as he took stock of the silver minibot before him. "It's quite an honour to be finally meeting with you one-on-one."

"Optimus Prime," Jazz nodded in acknowledgement. "Ah can't say Ah share the same honour."

"How unfortunate," Optimus said with a shrug.

The saboteur snorted lightly. "Let's cut the niceties, shall we? What are ya doin' here, Prime? Ah ain't no show ya can walk in anytime ta gawk at."

"I'm not here to gawk at all," Optimus assured sincerely. "I am actually here to introduce myself and have a little talk, though I admit to a certain amount of curiosity in wanting to meet with you."

"Really?" Jazz drawled with utmost scepticism.

Optimus ignored the Neutral's tone with practiced ease. "It would only be polite, yes? It would be rude of me not to come speak with a distinguished guest such as yourself. You've been with us here for so long already, but I'm afraid that with so many att2acks on Iacon, there hasn't been time for me to personally meet with you."

"Not to mention your little minions have probably been doin' everythin' in their power ta keep ya from meetin' with meh," Jazz sneered.

"They're as much my friends as they are my subordinates- they worry for my wellbeing," Optimus replied evenly. "I do the same for them."

To this, Jazz made no reply but to snort and shake his head.

"But curiosity and courtesy are not the only reasons I'm here," Optimus continued.

"Oh?"

The Prime extended a hand towards Jazz. "This may be a little belated, but I would like to sincerely thank you for your part in rescuing Prowl. It would have been rather unfortunate to lose him."

Jazz stared at the offered hand with a decidedly tense frown. Every instinct in his frame screamed that the Prime was not someone to trust, not at all, not for a moment. He learned that lesson long ago: trust No One. Every bot had an agenda, no matter how civil all outside appearances were; he knew that well from all his time with Megatron. The mech could be the most charming tyrant this side of the galaxy, but in the same moment he could just as easily rip you in two. Optimus wasn't exactly the sort to disembowel someone on a whim, that much was blatantly obvious, but it was nigh impossible for Jazz to shake his suspicions of his fellow Cybertronians. It was far too much to accept that perhaps this one mech was actually saying what he meant.

Optimus let his hand fall back to his side, not at all chagrined when he had been expecting far worse than a glare. "Yes, well, I suppose that was reaching a little, wasn't it?"

"Just a little, Prime." He examined the claws of one hand, the sharp metal glinting under the stark lights of the office. "Don't think for a moment that Ah'm on your side; Ah told Prowl Ah wouldn't kill ya this time, but don't be getting' your hopes up on meh. Ah ain't no Autobot and Ah sure don't want ta bend over backwards ta serve ya for any cause."

"I hope you'll excuse me if I find that amusing, since I can't seem to get the image of you helping my tactical advisor with his work out of my mind."

Jazz's visor glinted with a steely light. "If a case of amnesia will help, Ah'll be glad to arrange one for ya."

"I'm sorry; I shouldn't have brought that up again. Obviously it's a point of contention for you." Optimus raised his hands. "I'm not looking for a fight, Jazz. I only came here to talk."

"An' ya sure have been talkin', but ya haven't said a whole lot worth listenin' too."

"Then listen to this," offered the Prime as he sat a little straighter. Suddenly his whole demeanour was very different from what it was before, radiating a presence that captured even Jazz's full attention and forced him to listen proper. Although not overtly threatening, there was an innate sense of grand power about the Prime that was entirely intimidating to anyone unlucky enough to be the sole receiver of it.

"I know what you think about being here, and about everything that goes on around you," Optimus said. "Your opinion of the Autobots is clear enough in everything that you do without it ever having to be said."

"If ya know that, then Ah'd appreciate it if you'd stop tryin' ta convert meh," Jazz snapped. "Ah'd say ya were as bad as the Decepticons, but ya don't even got the spark ta shoot meh."

Optimus's gaze narrowed a fraction, the light of his fathomless optics deepening ever so slightly. "I will never ask you to become an Autobot, Jazz. I will never order you, as a free mech, to do anything that will compromise yourself. I am not of the habit of breaking the backs of others just so that they will bow to me. But do not insult me by thinking I am motivated by anything remotely Decepticon in nature, nor should you believe that I am weak because I believe in the sanctity of all life. You are protected here because, in the end, _I_ deem it right, even though your very presence here causes the energon of my people to be spilled. There is an upper limit to what I am willing risk, and if you cross it, I will not hesitate to react. A little _respect_ for that would be nice."

Jazz let the words sink in, his faceplate unreadable. The gravity of the moment settled heavily on his shoulders as he realized how very mortal he was under Optimus Prime's gaze. In the end, he said, "Ah'll consider it."

"You do that." Optimus cast his optics back to the door behind him as if trying to gauge how much time they had left before Prowl and Smokescreen would return, likely with reinforcements. "As an aside, I would like to point out that Prowl has invested a lot in you. I have never known the mech to take such an interest in anyone, and I hope his efforts are not being wasted."

"Ah wouldn't say _wasted_, per se. Ah've never met another mech like Prowl," Jazz intoned evenly. "You are very lucky ta have him as an Autobot."

"I know," Optimus replied sincerely, his luminous optics reflecting just how deep that sincerity reached. "Which is why if you spill his energon, I will take it as a personal affront to myself."

Jazz smirked. "It's not his energon Ah'm interested in, it's his mind."

"Try not to break that, either, if you please," Optimus said tightly. "My Tactical Division wouldn't be the same without him."

"Ah won't make any promises."

Meeting the Prime's gaze, Jazz was struck with the sudden realization of how much the Autobot leader truly _cared_ for his bots. He did not just consider them his as part of hs rule as Prime, they were not simply subordinates or pawns; they were his brothers and sisters. It was all there in his optics, which were so openly expressive that it could have been weakness if he did not have the talent of pinning mechs with a single look. Optimus gave a damn about what happened to his bots and was willing to do whatever it took to protect them. He didn't even see it as the duty of a Prime, either. No, he saw it as his mission because that was simply the kind of mech he was.

"Very well, I won't press the subject," Optimus said, rising from his seat. "Just keep in mind that if some orn you do break him, it will be your loss as well. You've said it yourself; you've never met another mech like him before, and I doubt you will ever meet another one like him again. Keep that in mind during your stay here."

Jazz watched the Prime's advance for the door, weighing all that he had heard and everything he had learned from listening to all the words not said. Just as Optimus reached the door to leave, the saboteur spoke up.

"You're a different breed than all the rest, aren't ya?"

Optimus stopped, turning around to consider the mech and his question. "Meaning?"

"You're nothin' like Megatron," Jazz said, meeting the Prime's gaze with an intense one of his own.

"I pride myself on that fact," Optimus replied.

"You're nothin' like your creator, either," Jazz continued. "Sentinel Prime didn't have the same spark for his people. You're not even like Guardian Prime, Alpha Prime, Vector Prime, Zion... You're not like any of them."

Optimus's optics flashed. For someone to know what any of those Primes were like, they would have had to have been very, very _old_. Not that age ever really mattered to a species like theirs, all nigh-immortal. But it was extremely _rare_ to encounter anyone who had lived through so many Primes. Jazz's considerable reservoir of skills suddenly took on a whole knew meaning, and the potential for what other knowledge he could know suddenly grew exponentially.

Seeing comprehension dawn on the mech's faceplate, Jazz smirked. "You're not like any other Prime Ah've ever known. Ya give a damn more than you're supposed ta."

"I'll take that as a compliment from someone like you," Optimus replied with a slight incline of his head.

"Ya should. Givin' a damn like ya do is somethin' Ah don't come across that often."

"I make it my business to give a damn." Optimus glanced to the door once more. "I must be going now- Prowl and Smokescreen are returning. This has been a very… _interesting_ conversation." He canted his head as he stared down at the silver mech still sprawled artfully behind Prowl's desk; so much danger, yet still so much potential. "Do keep in mind what I said. I'm not looking for an Autobot in you, just that you respect the one looking after you."

"Ah will keep that in mind, Prime." In a single fluid move, the mech rose to his feet and extended his hand. "It's been interestin'."

Optimus smiled, coming forward to grasp the offered hand as a sign of new born mutual respect.


	8. Chapter 8

Been a while, yes? Sorry for not being more prompt. Now that my school year is out, I'm juggling a full-time job with prep-research for my thesis and writing for the other stories I have on this site. Never fear, though. So long as interest remains for this story, it will never die. =) As an aside, I would like to mention that the goal of 200 reviews has been reached. Everyone's enthusiasm for _Where You and I Collide_ is the most amazing and humbling thing I have ever come across. I promise you all that I will make good with my end of the bargain; a steamy Jazz/Prowl one-shot will be written and posted, dedicated to you all. I can't say exactly when it will be posted, but it will be up sometime between now and... infinity. I just have to come up with an appropriate theme for it... ^_^;

My most sincere thanks to those who set aside a few minutes to review this story and empower this humble writer to continue writing: thank you to **Optimus Bob, Gatecat, flamingmarsh, renegadewriter, Shizuka Taiyou, Refracted Imagination, Rubyswordmaster, smoking caramels, Gimme-Chan, Faecat, Alangrieal, Marinelife37, phoebe turner, PrancingTiger86, Lecidre, FoghornLeghorn83, Jinx, Tatsumaki-sama, Peacewish, cmdrtekk, ShimmeringJade, KageOkami666, KaraQ, FunkyFish1991, Mirage Shinkiro, Chloo, Imbri of the Moon, Bluebird Soaring, Independent C, Sergeant Duck, Queen of the Red Skittle, Silver-head angel, Dvana, lady_tecuma, ShadowedBlossom, timme**, and **BoredTech**~ You're all too amazing for words. =)

Special mentions to **Chloo**~ This chapter is dedicated to her for her outstanding enthusiasm in reviewing every chapter a second time to ensure that the goal of 200 reviews was reached. I really did mean 200 _including_ chapter 8, but I'm seriously not complaining! You're amazing, **Chloo**!

Read, review, and enjoy~!

**Chapter 8**

"Try and keep up everyone; the warm-up is the easy part." Completely in his element, Prowl smoothly directed his class's warm-up movements. As part of his improvement as an officer in Simfur's Security Response, he had elected to train in the art of circuit-su. The fighting style was a little more exotic than what was mainstream in Simfur, completely divergent from the straightforward subduing techniques he had been programmed with from the start, but Prowl had been sincerely taken by the discipline. He could now boast of being quite proficient at it, which prompted the occasional training session hosted in Iacon's courtyard.

"This is too easy," Trailbreaker laughed, keeping up with ease. He was from Tyger Pax, the original territory to develop circuit-su. Having taken lessons in the discipline in his youth, he was sufficiently familiar with the style. He usually attended training sessions simply for the chance to break the monotony of regular life.

"For you, perhaps," Prowl conceded, and then nodded to Windcharger, who stood a few bots over. "But for others, it is not so easy."

"I've been practising, I swear," the warrior pouted while he executed a badly timed, sadly flawed move. His footwork was especially clumsy, causing several microbots around his feet to scatter in terror.

"Downloading files from Bluestreak does not count as practising," Prowl countered evenly, continuing to lead the session without pause.

"Who said I downloaded him?" Windcharger squeaked, optics shooting wide, while several others laughed. Prowl arched a knowing optic ridge. Now pouting harder than before, Windcharger wondered, "How did you know? Did Bluestreak tell you?"

Bluestreak, who also happened to be off to the side training in a smaller group of more advanced circuit-su students, squawked in protest, "I didn't say anything!"

"_For once,_" someone snorted discreetly.

"There was no need for Bluestreak to say anything," Prowl assured, flowing through yet another move. He was silent for the moment his back was turned to them, and then spoke again when he was facing them. "I've trained several times with Bluestreak. He's an exceptional student of the discipline, but he has certain flaws in his technique that are specific to him. You're mimicking him exactly, which is how I figured out who you downloaded from."

"We're _mimics,_ Prowl. What else do you expect us to do?" Tracks huffed. He was of intermediate skill in circuit-su, able to perform the warm-ups and basics without hassle, but still relied on the innate Cybertronian skill to mimic others in order to carry out more complex moves in rhythm to the rest of the class.

"I expect you to _learn_," sighed the tactician. "Yes, we're all transformers here and therefore we mimic to learn, which is why I am up here allowing you to mirror me. I am not condemning downloading, and I would encourage anyone having extreme trouble to go to the archives to download a basic, unedited file on circuit-su for proper instruction." His expression turned from blandly neutral to neutrally disapproving. "Downloading from others transformers, on the other hand, takes their physical memories into yourself, including all the provisions they've made to suit their frames. You learn nothing of yourself, of how you must adapt your own frame to the movements, how you must balance your own weight when you move; _that_ you must learn on your own, not from someone else's head."

Windcharger sighed. "I'm never going to get this."

Prowl stopped what he was doing, waving to everyone else to continue without him, while he made his way to the Autobot. "If you say you can't, then you won't. You simply need to adjust your stance," he said, taking hold of the bot and physically adjusting him into the correct stance. While Bluestreak's moves were fine for Bluestreak, Windcharger was built heavier and needed to balance himself differently. Once corrected, Prowl pressed the other mech to follow along with the others, and suddenly Windcharger discovered he wasn't as clumsy as he thought.

"Oh," the Autobot exclaimed, smiling proudly. "That was easy."

Prowl's mouthplates curved subtly. "If you practise properly from now on, you'll only get better."

Prowl's uplifting inspired the rest of the small class to invest themselves more in the discipline. Windcharger was among the converted who tried his hardest to get it right. Now that he was adapting to his own frame's limitations, understanding the movements and balance of circuit-su was a bit easier.

The rest of the session went rather smoothly. Prowl introduced a few offencive moves for his students to memorize and practise amongst themselves, and then he taught several more defencive tactics in order to counter the offencive moves. With enough practise, they would all be sufficient enough in the discipline to be able to defend themselves properly in hand-to-hand combat, should they ever find themselves in such a predicament. There were unfortunate times in war when having an arm that transformed into a gun was no enough, no matter what Ironhide said to the contrary. The Autobots needed skills in other arts aside from just shooting. Most of them were were civilians anyways- painters, technicians, miners, etc.,- with very little experience in the ways of war. What they needed was discipline and order, a mindset of calm calculation and understanding of ones' self and opponents; something to focus their minds and train their frames. Circuit-su was the best chance of instilling those ideals.

Bluestreak and his small group of advanced students moved into the crowd to help with correcting stances and offering to be sparring partners for anyone who needed one.

Despite the fact that war raged around them, it was moments such as this that reminded Prowl that peace, or at least some modicum of it, was not such a statistical impossibility.

A sudden battle cry from the far side of the open courtyard drew several Autobots' attention. There was more than one bot who tensed and drew their weapons. Prowl and his class turned to observe the source of the ruckus, tuning in just in time to witness a blur of red as Sideswipe launched himself at Jazz.

Prowl frowned at the sight, painfully aware that the probability of peace in Iacon was growing smaller by the astrosecond.

It was not that he had forgotten about Jazz per se. He had simply compartmentalized the saboteur's presence for the time being while he gave the majority of his attentions to his fellow Autobots. For the most part, Jazz had been left to his own devices on the other side of the courtyard for the duration of Prowl's session. While trust amongst the majority of the Autobots was still severely strained at best, and completely non-existent at worst, the saboteur had seemingly conceded to toning down a few of his more unnerving habits simply to gain access to socialize. Although Prowl and the Tactical Division were great to interact with and harass, there was only so long of seeing the same faceplate over and over and knowing exactly what they were going to say, think, and do before a mech couldn't take it anymore. In exchange for having greater, though still limited, freedom around Iacon, Jazz stopped hacking into duty rosters to rearrange them. He even stopped turning on his Decepticon signature modulator so that the base stopped going into lockdown every time it picked up the "intruder." To everyone's relief, Jazz even stopped wandering into random bots' rooms, rummaging through their things, and looming over them as they came online.

Not that giving up those petty entertainments meant he was sacrificing much. He gave up stalking bots while they recharged so he could stalk them while they were online. In a way, the opportunity was its own reward. Red Alert, for one, could no longer walk down a hallway without looking over his shoulder twice as many times as he usually did, and gave into fits of uncontrolled squeaking whenever Jazz was in the same room.

On top of his new freedom to harass the Iacon population, Jazz had seemingly gained a small gang of his own, mostly consisting of bots who found themselves chaffing under Autobot rules. Sideswipe was among the first to openly associate with Jazz, which came as no surprise to anyone. In fact, the mere alliance made everyone else rather uneasy. Sunstreaker initially came into the fold only by default association with his twin, which only resulted in several fights ending with numerous trips to the med bay. While the combatants were largely unharmed, their collateral damage was astounding. The strangest thing was, the more they fought, the more Sunstreaker and Jazz seemed to find even ground. They were equals in the dead arts of trying to kill each other, which seemed to be enough for the basis of an unsteady truce-friendship. Firestar of the femme division was quick to insinuate herself with Jazz, seeing as he once had been one of her favourite patrons when she had functioned as a pleasure bot in Kaon. It wasn't often that the elite forces of the femme division condescended to associate with the regular Autobot forces, but Jazz was the kind of mech who bots made exceptions for all the time. Others, like Dogfight and Blades, gravitated toward the gang because they fit in better with that kind of crowd than with the Autobot population in general.

Having so many capable Autobots with Jazz was something of a double-edged sword; more optics on the saboteur to keep him under control, yet all the more chance for Jazz to corrupt the already questionable warriors.

And, of course, there was the ruckus they always caused when they decided to entertain themselves. Like now.

Sideswipe was no one's fool, especially in a fight. He especially was no fool when he was getting into a sparring match with the likes of Jazz. He struck lightning quick twice- once to the left, once to the right, both of which Jazz dodged easily, though the end result left him open in the middle. Sideswipe took the opening to thrust his first upwards into the saboteur's chest. While the strike was stronger than the initial two feints, it was not strong enough to be called a full assault. It was an overly friendly tap. With a short bark of laughter, he sprung away to assume a battle-ready stance.

"You're good." Jazz smirked, brushing his front off at his own leisure. He hadn't been expecting to be hit at all. Sideswipe was one quick fragger.

"I'm one of the best," Sideswipe replied with a curving smirk of his own.

"We'll see," Jazz purred as he assumed a proper stance for himself. "Ya sure ya wanna fight meh without yer brother guardin' your back?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I can fight just as well as Sunny- I just don't have his temper," Sideswipe said. Sunstreaker wasn't even on base at the moment, having been assigned to a reconnaissance patrol as a precaution against the highly-active and volatile Decepticon presence in the area. Sideswipe was on his own, but certainly not afraid because of it.

"Too bad. A temper probably would'a gave ya an edge." With a short laugh, Jazz shot forward. A split second later, Sideswipe launched his own attack. They collided with a predictably loud, metallic crash. Jazz slammed the side of his forearm lengthwise along Sideswipe's chest; the force of the impact shattered the crystalline covers to the light arrays along Sideswipe's torso. The red warrior was not to be counted out so soon, though; he barely felt the attack as he dealt one of his own. His hands laced together as a makeshift club that came down on the crown of Jazz's head hard enough to summon sparks. Jerking apart, they lashed out again; Sideswipe used the heel of his palm to drive up under Jazz's chin, throwing the saboteur's head back. Jazz clapped Sideswipe's head between his hands, switching on his magnetic generators for a split second to create a feedback loop to disorientate his opponent.

They leaped apart, stumbled, gained their footing, and leaped at each other again.

Their attacks quickly grew more complex and calculating as each got a better idea of the others' fighting style. Where at first they dealt one or two testing attacks to see how the other would react, the longer the match stretched out, the longer they remained exchanging blows before jumping apart. Soon enough, they did not jump apart at all.

Seeing as this was one of the few times Prowl had an unimpeded opportunity to study Sideswipe's fighting style, he did so shrewdly. It was important to have Sideswipe's moves catalogued for future reference, not only to have a better idea of the warrior's abilities, but also to have a better idea of how to defeat him should he or his brother become a threat to the Autobots. What Prowl made note of in the warrior's movements was that Sideswipe, stylistically, was excessively physically violent. He used attacks that would generate the greatest amount of visual damage; clawing at armour, creating dents and gouges, destroying crystalline covers for lights and optics, and slitting energon lines so energon spattered everywhere. For a mech who was reportedly once a gladiator, excessive visual damage would have been a part of the show, and therefore required by the gladiators.

From what Prowl had observed of Sunstreaker in the past, both brothers were similar, though not exact, in their fighting styles. They were most likely trained by the same mentor. However, as the tactician further observed the red twin's sparring match, he detected the influence of Sideswipe's extroverted personality. Whereas Sunstreaker showed psychopathic and berserker tendencies in battle, such as a lack of empathy, lack of remorse, extreme aggression, and gratification in harming others, Sideswipe displayed a more comprehensive blend of compassion meeting calculating warrior. He displayed no signs of reluctance in doing harm to opponents, but did so in a way that quickly put his opponents out of their misery. Prowl made specific note of his conclusions on the red twin; he could fight and kill as violently as his brother, but did so coldly without satisfaction. Sideswipe had more presence of spark in battle.

With one warrior studied, Prowl then decided to make the most of the opportunity to study the other combatant in the match. It was interesting to note that there was very little in the Autobot database on the ex-Decepticon's hand-to-hand combat abilities. Most of his profile consisted of a list of his considerable and diverse talents in warfare, cross-referenced with dire warnings of using extreme caution in the event of an encounter. However, very little referred to actual, first-hand documentation of Decepticon Jazz's abilities. Ominously, the majority of individuals who had gotten close enough for first-hand information were dead. All except for Prowl himself. And now, in an unprecedented turn of events, Jazz was now giving an open demonstration of his abilities to a significant portion of Iacon's Autobots. For a bot so secretive, the choice to spar so publicly was a calculated move rather than a spontaneous bid to relieve boredom. Whatever the reason, it was lost on Prowl.

Shifting his weight subtly between his feet, the tactical commander canted his head in consideration of what he was seeing. Jazz was, unsurprisingly, a highly skilled warrior. He was able to match Sideswipe blow for blow, deal his own, and still maintain a measure of aloofness that belied his superior fighting skill. For someone so wildly disorientating in behaviour, the saboteur demonstrated remarkable refinement in his fighting style; it was both bizarrely suiting of him and disturbingly incongruous. To be perfectly honest, it appeared as if his whole chaotic personality had been subverted yet expanded. It was illogical, made Prowl's head hurt, and still managed to make an odd kind of sense. The style was still recognizably "Jazz" in its fluidity and grace, yet at the same time was extremely disciplined and practised. Jazz, by nature or design, was usually an impromptu experience in stylized pandemonium.

This facet of Jazz, a warrior focused solely on testing himself against a "friendly" opponent, was both invested in the match and detached from it. He moved in the manner of a bot who was highly trained in a specific way to move. At odds with the very nature of his personality, no movement was in excess, no attack without purpose. Sideswipe proved a challenge because their styles conflicted so wildly- the difference between classless street-fighting and the demonstration of an ancient art form.

There was a method to this form of Jazz's madness, and Prowl recognized it for what it was: circuit-su.

The tactician shook his head minutely, suddenly understanding the whole fiasco. If Jazz was trained in the discipline, of course he wouldn't miss the opportunity to upstage every bot in the vicinity. It was in his nature to be the best and not hide the fact. He probably had been offended by how poorly the Autobots had been treating the circuit-su lesson.

The longer Prowl watched, the more obvious it became that what Jazz and Sideswipe probably considered a friendly sparring match was what most would consider a no holds barred fight to the death. While it was unlikely the Autobots in general would greatly miss either bot should they die, the chaos that would ensue would be tremendous. The thought of the reports that would be required in the aftermath were enough to give Prowl a headache. There was only one option to proceed, which was to end the match before anyone died.

Prowl cast a quick glance around to see if he could secure backup for the task. Unfortunately, the attentions of his entire circuit-su class were now focused on the sparring match. A further evaluation of the courtyard revealed that not only were those practising circuit-su investing their attention in the spectacle, but all other personnel within the vicinity as well. To his utmost incredulity, Optimus Prime and the base commander/2IC of the Autobots, Ultra Magnus, had stopped in the windowed corridor wrapping around the courtyard in order to observe what was going on. Of all the lax, improper, absolutely un-Prime-like things to be doing! It nearly sizzled Prowl's circuits just thinking about it!

Bristling in irritation, Prowl made a beeline across the courtyard for the battling duo.

"Cease this immediately," he ordered. "You're doing nothing but making a spectacle of yourselves and distracting everyone else from their own tasks. If you are going to spar, then I suggest you take it inside to one of the training ranges."

Unsurprisingly, he was ignored.

Sideswipe laughed at something, only to end up faltering. Jazz took advantage of the distraction, grabbing the red mech by the horns and dragging him to the ground. He then jumped on the downed bot and twisted him limbs behind his back in a way that demanded immediate surrender.

"If ya had had a temper like Sunny, ya might have stood a chance," teased the silver minibot. "You're too nice, Sides. Too soft."

"Frag off," Sideswipe growled, trying to buck the other mech off. When that failed, he simply shed his warrior's persona and readopted the caricature he usually played. With a great, dramatic sigh, he exclaimed, "That's not fair! You double-teamed me with Prowl! He distracted me!"

"Ah don't play fair," Jazz replied, tightening his grip on Sideswipe's arms until it was sure to hurt. "If this had been real battle, you'd be dead. Now be a big bot and except your total humiliation and defeat."

Sideswipe refused, struggling wildly.

Prowl's mood soured further the longer the pair continued to ignore him. Worse yet, he heard muffled laughter somewhere behind him. Not liking the idea of being laughed at, especially by onlooking subordinates, the tactician decided that he was going to have to be more forceful if he wanted the two miscreants to listen to him. Hooking his hand beneath a plate of armour on Jazz's shoulder,doing the same for Sideswipe, he promptly disentangled the pair and hauled them to their feet. Like an errant youngling, Sideswipe shook himself free, brushing his shoulder clean of Prowl-cooties.

"What is your problem now?" he whined. "Jazz and I weren't doing anything against the rules. You can't get all glitchy at us for nothing." He straightened, puffing out his dented chest. "If you were coming over here to save my aft from Jazz, you wasted your time. I was holding my own just fine. A little bit of sparring isn't going to kill me."

"You dying might actually alleviate some of my problems," Prowl stated dryly. "As it stands, you and Jazz were doing far more than simply spar. You were intentionally creating a spectacle so as to disrupt activity in the courtyard. I will not allow it to continue. You will report to the med bay immediately where Ratchet will repair you."

Sideswipe cringed. "Can't you send me to the brig instead?"

Prowl scowled, his gaze darting to the two lurking mechs trying to go unnoticed. They jerked straight the moment Prowl caught their optics. "Dogfight, Blades, escort Sideswipe to the med bay. Immediately."

"_Frag it,"_ Sideswipe sighed, allowing himself to be guided away.

With one problem dealt with, the tactical adviser turned to face the second. Unfortunately, before he got the chance to fully face the problem, he was physically assaulted by it. Literally. Two clawed hands shot out, grasped him by the front of his armour, and with all the strength and grace of a master, Jazz flipped him to the ground. As the world stopped spinning, Prowl was left blinking rapidly up at a handsome, smirking faceplate.

"Ya didn't think Ah'd let ya get away with breakin' up mah fight, did ya?" wondered the saboteur, sharp displeasure running in an undercurrent in his fluid voice.

"If you think you're going to get me to apologize, you are sorely mistaken," Prowl replied evenly as he continued to lie flat on his back. There was no way in the pit he was going to show weakness in front of such a large crowd. That was only inviting more trouble later on.

"Then Ah'll have ta get somethin' just as interestin' outta ya," Jazz drawled as he rose to his feet, giving Prowl room to rise as well. The saboteur let his gaze rove the crowd for a moment, as if suddenly becoming aware of how much attention the pair of them were now receiving. If the Autobots had been interested before, they were riveted now. Prowl and Jazz's mind games-cum-mental warfare were infamous around Iacon by now. They were a guaranteed show for anyone lucky enough to watch, as well as a reminder of how dangerous both mechs were.

"You will get nothing out of me, Jazz. I have a class to finish, so if you will excuse me?" Prowl pointedly brushed himself off with every intention of returning to his small circuit-su class.

"A class, huh? Bet that's going great," Jazz drawled, sounding far too interested for his intentions to be completely benign. "How about we give 'em a proper demonstration in circuit-su?"

Prowl heard the impending danger and reacted to it like lightning. Spinning as fast as he could, he raised his arms to block an attack that surely would have put him in the med bay otherwise. His battle computer automatically came on, rapidly analyzing the situation. Jazz repeated the same opening courtesy he did with Sideswipe; attack, fall back, attack again, fall back again. Prowl successfully countered each time, though his defence was shaky as he still reeled from the initial attack. It was only by his exceptional reflexes and battle computer that he remained on his feet instead of on the ground.

Jazz jumped away one last time, assuming a proper fighting stance. "So, what do ya say? We'd make a good match, don't ya think?"

Prowl arched an optic ridge. "Do you ever get tired of propositioning me?"

"Not when ya keep things so interestin'," the silver mech laughed.

Prowl frowned, running through the calculations his battle computer was feeding him. He had the possibilities of a dozen different actions to take and a dozen different reactions for each action. In each scenario, it was inevitable that he fight Jazz. Even if it wasn't, he was bound by honour and damned by pride to accept the challenge. He wasn't going to allow his authority to be questioned in such a public place, especially when the Prime was looking on. Bowing to the pressure, Prowl assumed a stance of his own. Honour dictated that he at least point out the obvious:

"You are damaged. This will be an unfair fight."

Jazz's smirk curled wider. "Thanks for the concern, but it takes a lot more than a few dents ta slow meh down."

"Of course it would." There was no backing down now. All optics were on them. Tension had risen in the courtyard like a storm about to break, crackling in the air like lightning. Having had the opportunity to study Jazz beforehand, Prowl was confident he could hold his own against the mech, However, it was disconcerting to be so public in their first physical match against each other. With so many unknowns involved, Prowl would have preferred a private training range where distractions could be minimized. As it stood, he would simply have to make due with the situation as it was. "Shall I begin, or do you want the honours?"

Jazz settled back, turning his hand palm up with a beckoning gesture. "Come get meh, Prowler. Let's see what ya got."

With basic warm ups done and the exchange of courtesy blows past, Prowl was free to strike into an immediate fight. His first attack was met with a quick defence, and then was retaliated upon. Jazz's sweeping open-palmed slap was batted away, the momentum of which was redirected so that his elbow went for Prowl's faceplate. Prowl ducked, turning so as to ram his shoulder into Jazz's lower chest. He had greater mass then the saboteur, able to force him back a step. Using the minor distance to his advantage, Prowl cocked his fists and swept one across the side of Jazz's faceplate, followed by the other driving the saboteur's chin up. Seemingly stunned for a moment, Jazz stumbled back another step and spat to the side. A small spatter of energon left his mouthplates.

"I warned you this would not be fair," Prowl sighed, prepared to end the match as quickly as it had begun before Jazz was humiliated. He had enough respect for the mech not to want to do that to him.

"Weren't ya listening? Ah don't play fair; Ah don't _like_ fair. That don't mean that we can't still _play_," Jazz laughed, rushing forward.

This time, they collided like titans. Where they met, sparks erupted. Their choreography was flawless, as if dancing rather than fighting. Two forces of nature moving in tandem. Like living embodiments of vicious harmony- perfect balance to each other, even as they tried to knock the other out. Where one moved, the other would instinctively predict and block. The longer they remained locked together, the more entangled they seemed to become. Both were clearly high-class warriors. They were extremely well trained in the art of circuit-su. Their talents became more and more obvious as they allowed themselves to be swept into the excitement of the match.

There were no missed steps, no fouled moves; they became nothing short of _perfect_ together.

And as they allowed themselves to let go, their violence toward the other increased. Prowl was the first to sustain a considerable wound. Jazz, using his smaller size and superior speed, had managed to get behind him and twist one of the wings of metal that jutted from his back. With a good wrenching pull, it was disconnected from the frame and flung into the crowd. Prepared for such an injury, the neural circuits in the wing were deactivated. Prowl felt not a thing except a need for retaliation. Reaching over himself, he managed to snag Jazz by the horns and drag him off his back. Without remorse, the silver mech was flipped to the ground with Prowl's weight bearing down on his head. His decorative horns were left crushed and his audio receptors sparked from structural damage.

Honour dictated that after exchanging such blows, the combatants back away. They did just that, heaving with the toll their sparring match was taking on them. While their frames bore the marks of battle, their optics glowed with a satisfaction that came from meeting one's perfect adversary.

Prowl rolled his shoulder, feeling off-balance without one of his wings. At the same time, he felt oddly energized. It had been too long since someone had offered such a refreshing challenge. He hadn't realized he had been in need of a proper work out until Jazz called him out.

"Did you plan this from the start?" the tactician wondered quietly, so only he and Jazz would hear as they circled each other.

Jazz's visor flashed brilliantly, matching the lively grin curving his mouthplates. "Ya looked like ya needed ta break out a little."

"That's unusually charitable of you," Prowl said, arching an optic ridge.

"Not really. Ah was bored, too," reasoned the other mech.

As they collided again, Autobots from the surrounding courtyard closed ranks around them. No one dared cheer for fear of breaking whatever spell had befallen the ex-Decepticon and their head tactical adviser. They murmured feverishly, though. Their tides jostled and rustled in attempts to get the best view of the fight. Watching the two titans clash was, perhaps, one of the most mesmerizing things any of the Autobots had ever seen.

"Tell meh, who was your master?" Jazz prompted, locking claws with Prowl for a brief grappling match.

"Yokétron," Prowl grunted, twisting hard to the left to release their hands. He then lunged at Jazz.

Jazz avoided with a quick pivot. "Ah've heard of him- a master in the discipline, wasn't he?"

"Yes." Prowl fell back, letting Jazz press an attack of his own. It was an effort to keep the saboteur from landing his punches. As exhausted as he was, Jazz was still a damnably fast opponent.

"Why'd ya get into circuit-su? Your precinct captain order it?" wondered the saboteur, his easy tone at odds with his vicious attacks.

"I did it because it interested me. There was a kind of order and reason to the discipline that attracted me." Prowl's tone was just as incongruously calm.

"No wonder ya liked it." The silver mech ducked down, sweeping Prowl's legs out from under him. "You're not as good as Ah'd expect ya ta be, though. Why didn't ya finish your training?"

Prowl's faceplate hardened. "Yokétron was killed by one of his other students before I could complete my apprenticeship."

Jazz frowned. "Ah'm... sorry ta hear that."

Prowl remained silent for a moment, unable to process the idea of Jazz feeling sorry for anything. He allowed himself to become distracted from the conversation by their ongoing match. Once a new pattern was established, he asked, "What of yourself? Who trained you?"

"Xerxia," growled Jazz. "Ya could say she taught meh everythin' Ah know."

"I have never heard of that designation."

"She was a little bit before your time," the saboteur laughed mirthlessly. That was the trouble with living so long- you got to a point where everything was always before everyone else's time. "Lucky for meh, though- Ah got ta finish mah trainin' with her."

Prowl's optics shot wide as he realized the repercussions of such a statement. He was outmatched. "You've been toying with me this entire time."

Jazz shrugged. "You're mah favourite toy."

To demonstrate how clearly he had been toying with the tactician, Jazz began to press an attack that Prowl found near-impossible to defend against. A combination of inexperience and growing exhaustion left him open to the looming threat of defeat. The disgrace of being beaten by an ex-Decepticon in front of so many of his peers did not bode well for Prowl. As logical as it was to admit defeat honourably, being spared anymore unnecessary damage, he refused to bow to that fate. He couldn't allow himself to be humiliated. Not like this. Not in front of the Prime, of all bots.

Determination fuelled a new wave of attack from the storm-grey mech. Surprised by it, Jazz wavered for a moment. Prowl's movements changed ever-so-subtly. They were directed by emotion rather than logic. It made him stronger, but more reckless. It was too easy to counter the attacks. No matter how desperately Prowl pressed his attack, Jazz remained with the upper hand.

Perhaps growing too confident with the outcome of the match, the saboteur made the fatal mistake of leaving himself open. Prowl dove on the chance, ramming his hand up under the armour of Jazz's chassis. The force behind the attack drove his fingers deep. He felt the vibrations of Jazz's frame throughout his arm; the pulse of energy from the mech's spark, barely a breath out of reach,made his hand tingle.

For a moment, they stood staring at each other, as if neither could comprehend what had just happened. Jazz was the first to move, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Ah give."

Prowl blinked, taking a moment to process the words. "You do?"

"Yep."

A roaring cheer suddenly broke out from the crowd. Still stunned by his victory, Prowl was unable to resist as he was swept into tide. It wasn't often when he was openly and enthusiastically praised, so to have it given so readily now only served to stun him more. He was patted on the back and shoulders, his hands touched, his designation praised. The small circuit-su class he'd been conducting was the loudest in their rambunctious accolades. Being taught circuit-su by a mech who could kick Jazz's aft suddenly made circuit-su a thousand times more interesting than it had been before. No doubt by the next time a session was held, the story of Prowl's victory would have spread throughout Iacon and there would be a number of new students showing up to learn.

Disoriented by the crushing crowd, Prowl sought refuge at the edge. No easy task, but he eventually found his way out. Excuses of going to the med bay for repairs gave him enough leeway to break away from the worst of it. Jazz, by this time, was at the far end of the courtyard making his way inside. Unsettled by something, Prowl pursued the mech until they could match pace.

"You intentionally left yourself open," stated the tactician. "You threw the match."

"Did Ah?" wondered the saboteur, nonchalant as ever.

They wandered into a quiet corridor together. It was empty, seeing as everyone was now in the courtyard using the opportunity to start a party.

"Why?" Prowl asked. "You're not the kind of mech to take losing so gracefully, let alone volunteer it willingly."

As they walked along the windows, Jazz let his visor rise. He regarded the Autobots outside, how exuberant they now were. Their once-waning confidence in their tactical commander was now restored. Confidence in the tactical commander meant less questioning and prying from others, which, in turn, meant more of Prowl's time Jazz could claim for himself. His white optics then slid to the mech at his side, sizing him up carefully, scrutinizing what he saw. Proud, though a little worse for wear. There hadn't been so much emotion in the tactician's optics since their encounter in the med bay after their arrival in Iacon. Prowl looked invigorated. Satisfied. He was truly the most interesting toy... _mech_ Jazz had ever had the pleasure of toying with.

"Maybe Ah didn't lose at all," he said, smiling enigmatically. "Maybe Ah got exactly what Ah wanted."


	9. Chapter 9

It's been too long, I know. Life and other stories have gotten in the way. It's been a killer wanting to write for this story and never finding the proper time to do so. With _May We Never Let Go_ now up- the sequel to the _War Eternal_ story _As We Come Together_- now posted, my heart's been aching for that story. Hopefully, if there's still love out there for this, I'll try harder to focus on it in the future. ^_^

As a special note, the sexy one-shot I promised if this story reached 200 reviews in 8 chapters as been posted, since you guys were so awesome and rose to the challenge of all those reviews. The one-shot is called _Addicted to You, _and for those who haven't had a chance to enjoy it yet, I hope you do so!

My most sincere thanks to all the amazing reviewers of last chapter. Your love for this story is humbling and your patience in waiting for this long overdue chapter is amazing. Much love to: **shadowblade-tara, FoghornLeghorn83, flamingmarsh, ShimmeringJade, ShadowedBlossom, renegadewriter8, Optimus Bob, Peacewish, KageOkami666, smoking caramels, Anon, Gatekat, Marinelife37, PrancingTiger86, Faecat, phoebe turner, Jinx, Refracted Imagination, Bluebird Soaring, Elita One, Shinigami-sama1, Uniasus, Mirage Shinkiro, Remenyke, Queen of the Red Skittle, Chloo, won't be the Victim, Independent C, Lecidre, FunkyFish1991, BoredTech**, and **Shi-Koi! **

My love to you all! Read, Review, & Enjoy! ^_^

**Chapter 9**

The observation deck... it was strange how often Jazz was finding himself there so often, especially recently. Or maybe it wasn't such a mystery. He knew why he was going there, but the reasoning behind it irked him. He was bored. More than bored, really- he was disgustingly, ridiculously, heinously BORED. And the reason he was bored irked him even more than any other reason he might have for any other thousand things going on in his head: Prowl was not in Iacon base. Pit, he wasn't even in Iacon the territory.

Prowl was away on a mission to Polyhex- armed in information Jazz had supplied him with, no less- which left Jazz to his own devices in Iacon.

Normally, this was excuse enough to wreak all sorts of havoc, yet all the saboteur could bring himself to do was wallow in a boredom so consuming that he felt neurons dying because of it. With the cybercat away, the glitchmouse should have been able to play, but Jazz didn't even bother.

Oh yes, he still indulged in some of his _harmless_ hobbies- relentlessly terrorizing the Autobots of Iacon while they lived, worked, and recharged. It counted as harmless in his mind because no one died, though he had a feeling the Autobots were none too pleased with him. They usually weren't, so no big deal. What did take the joy out of widespread panic and disorder? The fact that there was no stalwart glare of exasperation and irritation awaiting at the end of it. Without Prowl around to deliver his usual spiel of reprimands, there hardly was any satisfaction in forcing Red Alert into a meltdown or throwing Ratchet into a fire-breathing tantrum. What was the point of tormenting someone when no reward would come of it?

Currently, Jazz tapped his forehead against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows he was standing in front of.

Shouldn't he feel_ horrified_ that he considered pissing Prowl off a reward? Shouldn't the terror and pandemonium he wilfully incited be reward enough? Before he'd sunk into his current Autobot-saturated funk, terror and pandemonium had always had a way of cheering him up.

What kind of sick and twisted world had Jazz landed himself in when he'd rather be good than be dragged off and scolded by someone other than Prowl? That was just... _wrong_. Sick and wrong.

He wracked his mind for the answer to a question he could barely contemplate. What was happening to him? Why this fixation on Prowl? For all the accumulated knowledge he had gathered throughout his too long life, he was offered no prize. No relief from the mystery. Frustration rode him as precious answers eluded him. Why was it that Prowl seemed to be the only being alive to confound him to such an extent?

The irony of the situation was not lost on the saboteur, either; one of the most logical creatures he had ever encountered also being among the most confusing. Primus, if he existed, could go frag himself for all the headaches he was currently giving one particular saboteur.

Jazz, of course, was smart enough to recognize his interest in Prowl's abilities, his mind, the value he presented as a figure that refused to bow or break... For the life of him, Jazz could not name the curious sense of mind that became apparent when he was about to do something that Prowl would disapprove of and suddenly found no desire to carry through with Prowl physically being there to reprimand him.

This... _preference_, for he had no other word to call the compulsion, went beyond all other previous interests he'd ever harboured.

Interest in bots generally meant Jazz was scheming to break them. He was entertained by them like toys, and he could easily toss them aside when he was done with them. That was a comfortable, familiar, even welcomed feeling of transient occupation. But Prowl? Interest never waned. He always remained at the back of the saboteur's mind. Lurking there. Taunting him. Jazz even found himself considering the mech whenever he was faced with a specific decision- generally the kinds of choices that meant sending Iacon into a panic-induced lockdown or leaving it to quietly rest. More often than not, Jazz was leaving the Autobots to rest. He was finding less and less joy in fragging with them.

In Prowl's absence, Jazz had even donned a tracking collar for the tactician's peace of mind. NOT for the rest of Iacon's peace of mind. No, never that. Even if the tracking collar was an insult, even if he could have it off in a matter of astroseconds, he endured the slander of it simply because... because Prowl had asked. The mere asking has been an experience in humiliation for them both. They were well aware of the ineffectiveness one such device would have on Jazz should the saboteur desire to do something wicked. All he had to do was think it and he could get the collar off. There had never been an orn in his life when Jazz had ever worn something so caging, confining; degrading and insulting. Yet Prowl had asked, knowing how much of an insult he was delivering, how much of a sacrifice he was asking for... The tactician had even shown pity, offering to place Jazz under house arrest instead for the duration of the mission so Jazz wouldn't have to endure the slander.

For whatever reason, Jazz had taken the collar.

It was a sick and wrong twist of fate. If he ended up thinking about it too much, it made him extremely uncomfortable. To willingly submit to another. To acquiesce to one of their requests. To consider someone else's peace of mind above his own... He suffered the vague sense of wanting to purge. He desired to make his way to the wash racks and scrub himself clean of such a feeling.

How long had it been since he'd felt dirty over anything? He'd raped minds, mutilated bodies, ravaged sparks with less trouble. He recharged at night with no disturbance to his conscience. To live for what he wanted, what he needed, and what he desired- that was his way of life. It was all he knew. All he was taught.

To live for another... Jazz curled his mouthplates in distaste. No, not live for another. Merely... _considering_ another... It left him sick inside.

Acting like this... it wasn't him. It wasn't what he'd been taught. He should care only for himself. He should live only for his own survival. Only his own wants, needs, and gratification should matter. He should be free to do whatever suited him the most, no one else. There was no one else in his world that mattered. Living as long as he had, he knew to care for anyone but himself was a mistake. Sparks were like burning embers on the wind- too soon did they blow out and fade away. It was smartest to care nothing for anyone. Their lives, even as long lived as they were, were still nothing but a drop of time to him.

And yet... there was Prowl.

So short a time here, a blink of an optic to him, and he was breaking his own rules?

His claws rose to his neck, touching the band of metal that rested there.

Evidence of something he had no name for, baldly there for everyone to see. Like a neon sign.

In his mind, every night when he recharged, every moment while he was awake and let his thoughts wander, he relived that moment outside the Straxis compound:

"_Come with me." _

"_Ah'm not cut out ta be an Autobot." _

"_You're smart. You'll learn." _

"_...alright, Ah'll give it a try."_

That was probably why he found himself spending joors in the observation deck, watching the world around him. He didn't want to think about what was happening to him. Changes were taking place, and he wasn't sure that he liked them all. Things were different from how they once were. He was different.

For once, he wanted his mind to go completely blank. He wanted no thoughts to haunt him. Wanted no possibilities to taunt him. Absolute silence was all he asked for. The rare moment when the storm receded, racing thoughts slowed to a trickle, and the blur of wildly spinning world came into focus. He wanted the perfect silence of frozen time.

He didn't get what he asked for, but was relatively close.

The dark of night had set in long ago, a veil of quiet settling over Iacon. The corridors were mostly silent, aside from the occasional tread of metal feet. The observation deck where he lurked hosted very little company to disturb him. He would have liked it empty so there would be nothing and no one there to disturb him, but Jazz was becoming accustomed to accepting the ultimatums fate was thrusting at him as of late.

Bluestreak was in the far corner, curled up in a chair. Even in the shadows, it was easy to tell the sniper was passed out cold. Empty cubes of potent high-grade surrounded him. He did that occasionally, Jazz had come to understand. Sometimes Bluestreak would trade Sideswipe for some of his most potent high-grade, then he would find a quiet place to drink himself into oblivion. He was the only survivor of the Crystal City massacre, living with the horrific memories every orn because he refused to allow them to be deleted. High-grade was one of his few escapes. Jazz suspected talking incessantly was another.

Jazz's only other company in the room was the threesome cozied up behind him. They were a collective flash of fiery red that materialized in the periphery every once in a while. Inferno's deep, rumbling voice mixed with Red Alert's chirping, weaved together by Firestar's sultry tones. They sounded like they were having quite a lovely time together. Their whispering intimate, teasing.

The femme was actually supposed to be Jazz's "keeper" for the evening. Without Prowl in Iacon to "keep Jazz in line", he had been given into the care of the Femme Division. A elite task force unto themselves, they did not answer to the Prime but to his sparkmate, Elita One. With the advantage of their frames being specifically built for power, speed, and agility, each femme under Elita's command was a finely tuned weapon. Much like the Decepticon femmes, they were a force to be reckoned with. Vicious fighters. Ruthless in battle. Not to be messed with.

Jazz commended the Autobots for understanding that if they wanted him guarded, then only the very best would do. He was a smart enough mech to admit that even he was wary to go head-to-head with a femme. From what he understood, Firestar was among one of the best, when she wanted to be. Currently, her concern was not for Jazz. She was content to murmur quietly with her lovers, allowing Jazz "private time" at the windows.

So Jazz did as Firestar silently invited him to do; he pretended she wasn't there and immersed himself in the world beyond the window.

He had been here so long, the Decepticons were no longer attacking the base. Their efforts to capture him had wasted too much time and resources, especially when Jazz ratted out their hiding spots whenever they got too annoying. Now the night was quiet. Bright, but quiet. So many lights reflecting off of so much metal. And beyond the lights of Iacon laid a rusted landscape, twisted and scarred beyond repair. Scenery he was familiar with now, though not necessarily comfortable with it. He was still disconcerted every time he looked out a window to see he was in the spark of an Autobot base. He _lived_ on an Autobot base, now. No denying it. He used their resources. Walked their corridors freely (sort of). He even had a room now, though it was little more than an annexed storage room nearest Wheeljack's labs. No one said the reasons he was moved there, but it was obvious nonetheless; there was nothing Jazz could do to the base down there that Wheeljack hadn't already done worse.

Every faceplate he looked into, he saw Autobots- with the possible exceptions of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, who were hard to pin down as truly Autobot or Decepticon. He was surrounded by Autobots; every faceplate he saw out the window, every bot lingering in the courtyard. The whole lot of them _Autobots_. And as if that weren't bad enough, Jazz could put a designation to each faceplate now, too. Not only designations, but he knew their work schedule, their behaviours, even some of their personal likes and dislikes...

He was getting to _know_ them.

No. Jazz shook his head, scowling. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about any of them.

Blank mind. No thoughts. Just stand and stare at the world and let his thoughts be nothing. Like the night sky, endlessly black. Empty. Quiet.

The door hissed open behind him, a sharp staccato of footsteps announcing the entrance of a new bot. Jazz scanned the spark resonance of the newcomer out of habit, tensing when he learned who it was.

"Firestar, you're relieved of duty," Chromia announced, her raspy voice carrying throughout the room. She did not have a vocal processor made for whispering.

Firestar snapped up from her spot lounging across Inferno and Red Alert's laps. "Chromia, my shift isn't over-."

The other femme waved a hand, cutting her subordinate off. "It looks like you hardly begun your shift, anyways," she pointed out with a hard look cast in Inferno and Red Alert's direction. The mechs bowed their heads, looking appropriately embarrassed. "All three of you are dismissed, and please take Bluestreak with you. Poor thing looks like he needs help to his quarters." And by "help" Chromia meant physically picking the mech up and carrying his unconscious frame away.

"I'll take him," Inferno said quietly, crossing the room to gather the smaller bot. All four of them were away without further incident, leaving Jazz alone with the 2IC of the Femme Division. During his short residence in the care of the femmes, he had rarely ever chanced upon either Chromia or Elita One. He had never had the chance to exchange words with either of them. They were two individuals he was curious and wary of at the same time. He couldn't comprehend what Chromia, of all the femmes, would be doing in his company at this time of night. What purpose could she possibly have for seeking him out?

"So," Chromia suddenly intoned, coming around to Jazz's right side, her dusky blue armour taking on a silvery shade under the light filtering in through windows. She leaned against the crystalline pane, a little taller than Jazz though not as wide. There was an energon blade at her side, nothing more than a small dagger but still enough to pose as a threat. The femme made no move for her blade, instead focusing her gaze on the Neutral mech. "You've been coming here a lot."

"It has a nice view," Jazz replied neutrally, not bothering to cast his gaze to the side to acknowledge the femme. As always, he kept his visor down, its blank white expanse keeping Chromia at bay.

"You like to watch things, don't you?" Chromia said, turning her head a little to peer out the window into the surrounding landscape. Bots, buildings, high walls, and then ravaged battlefields for as far as the optic could see, all wrapped up in the veil of night. It was pretty, in a desolate kind of way. Familiar and haunting.

"There's not much else ta do around here," the saboteur replied, shrugging.

"Yeah, not much to do when you're just a... guest." The femme snorted lightly, as if laughing at the term. "Even less to do when you've already seen and done it all, right?"

She was obviously expecting an answer, so Jazz indulged her with a curt, "Right."

"I can relate," Chromia intoned, nodding to herself. "After so long, you get to a point when it feels like all time does it repeat itself. The older you get, the more time repeats over and over."

The corner of Jazz's mouthplates curved minutely, the gesture sharp and unkind. Chromia was one of the old ones, like him. Someone whose spark never faded no matter how many eons past. Both she and Ironhide were old. Older than Jazz, he'd wager, but probably not by much. But unlike Jazz, they tended to show their age a little more. Sometimes they advertised it as part of their fear campaign against the Decepticons. They were ancient and couldn't die; true immortals among immortals. By contrast, Jazz didn't like having others aware of how many lifetimes he'd lived. It took away from his mystery. He preferred to have one up on his opponents at all times.

"Ah see the Prime can't keep his mouthplates shut, can he?" the saboteur snorted, his mouthplates still curved in their bitter pose.

"Don't blame him- he can hardly keep something from Elita One."

"His sparkmate," Jazz growled, distaste colouring his tone. He never liked the idea of being bound to someone he could keep no secrets from. A spark forever bound to him, and he to that spark. The idea was absurd.

"Yes, his sparkmate and my friend. Elita One can hardly keep something from me- as a rule, I don't let her," Chromia replied, her diamond-sharp optics tracking Jazz's every movement. "I have to admit, it's quite the surprise. I never imagined you being so old. Although, now that I think about it, it makes sense."

"Ah hide mah age better than you do."

"Sure, I'll give you that." Chromia nodded, pensive over the matter. She continued to openly study Jazz, tracing his frame with unabashed appraisal. It occurred to the saboteur that the femme was much different from her mate. Their reputations painted them both as gun turrets with legs, short-tempered and trigger-happy. Now Jazz realized that Chromia was the more dangerous of the pair. She had the optics of a killer who thought her kills through. She could kill slowly if she wanted to. Her mind was probably as sharp as the energon blade she carried. Like Jazz, she was made all the more dangerous by all the eons she had lived.

Jazz finally turned to face his company fully, leaning his shoulder against the window in a mirror of Chromia's pose. "Is there a reason ya came here, or did ya just want ta reminisce about the good old orns?"

A ghost of a smirk crossed the femme's mouthplates. "Got curious, is all. It's not every orn I come across another old one. Figured since you were under my division's care and all, I might as well make good on having you pinned down to check you out."

Jazz bristled. "Ah'm not pinned down."

Chromia's optics glinted. "Oh really? Then why haven't you left yet? You're not the kind to stay in one place unless you're held there."

"Ah simply don't want ta leave yet," Jazz replied sharply.

"I wonder why?" murmured the femme, though by her tone, she already thought she knew the answer. That irked Jazz more than it should have. He flexed his hands, curling his clawed fingers into fists. Chromia's optics instantly fell to the movement, her own frame tensing in retaliation. Her hand flexed near her blade, prepared to stab him straight through to his spark if need be. When Jazz did not strike, she didn't relax. Neither relaxed. However, her gaze did return to his.

"What do ya want, femme?" the saboteur growled.

She canted her head, looking Jazz over. "Do you ever wonder why sparks like ours never fade?"

_Fade_. The term used to refer to what happens to sparks after they hit a certain age. Nigh-immortal beings simply ceased to be because the energy of their life forces dispersed, their sparks fading away. There was no reason for it, it simply happened. It was a part of life. A part of death.

"Ah never have ta wonder," Jazz replied. "Ah already know."

Chromia arched an optic ridge, silently enquiring for the saboteur to continue.

Jazz turned his gaze to the endless black sky again. He laid a hand against the cold crystal pane. "We don't fade because we still have reasons for living. It's as simple as that."

"I suppose it is that simple, for some." Chromia chuckled ruefully. "But what reasons do we have when we've already seen it all? You'd think we'd get bored and die like everyone else."

"Do Ah look like Ah have all the answers?" Jazz replied, his tone bordering on curt.

Laughter drifted from the dusky blue femme. "Answers, no. When I walked in here, it looked like you had a pit of a lot of questions, though."

"That's none of your business, femme."

"No, it's not," Chromia replied, clearly unconcerned with that little detail. Her gaze suddenly became more intense, far more intent on the subject of her appraisal. "I'm willing to wager that what's keeping you here on base is something similar to what's keeping you from fading."

"Again- none of your business."

Chromia ignored him. "You're a hedonist, always looking for something new, something interesting. You've been looking for something that's different from everything you've known. I think you found that here."

"So says you," Jazz replied tightly, the hand he laid against the window now curling into a fist.

"Yeah, says me. I've lived my own fair share of life, Jazz. I've seen enough things to know what I'm looking at."

"Then maybe ya should get your optics checked."

She rolled her optics. "Whatever, listen to me or don't, I don't care. I'm just going to call it exactly as I see it, and I see that you're not the same mech you were the orn you came here. You're capable of leaving any time you want, but you never do. You could massacre this base, but you never bother. You're even wearing a damn tracking collar that means absolute slag. Why?" She prodded him with a sharp finger, only to be smacked away.

"Don't touch meh."

Chromia smirked. "There's something here unlike anything you've ever experience before, and you can't get it anywhere else. That's why you stay."

Jazz growled, turning his faceplate away from the femme, despising her with every fibre of his being.

"I'm right, aren't I? Even if you don't want to admit it, I'm right," Chromia pressed. "I know the feeling. It's addictive. You can never get enough of it. You're willing to do stupid slag just for a taste of it. The more you have it, the more you want it."

"Ya don't know anything."

"I know enough."

Jazz turned back to the femme, his smirk now a scowl. "Why are ya really here, femme? Ah'm not interested in listenin' ta your philosophy. Say your piece an' leave meh alone."

"First of all, my philosophy in life happens to be shoot first, ask questions later. I was just giving you the benefit of my wisdom, which happens to be a little bit more comprehensive than yours." Her smirk grew wide as as Jazz absorbed the mild insult, darkening his mood. It was so obvious that he wanted to rip her head from her shoulders. It was so telling of how much he had changed as he continued to resist the urge. "I've already said my piece, whether or not you bothered to listen. You can take that stupid collar off now. I'm amazed that you've worn it for this long."

For a moment, Jazz hesitated, gauging the femme for any trickery. When he found none, he reached up and disengaged the locking mechanism, slipping the collar from his neck and crushing it between his hands. The scrap of metal was then tossed to a shadowed corner of the room.

"There, doesn't that feel better?"

"Much," Jazz snorted.

Chromia straightened to her full height, gazing down at Jazz with old optics like his own, but he couldn't help but feel that she truly knew something he didn't. He hated that feeling. He hated her a little more than he did before.

"I think I should tell you the real reason I came here," intoned the femme, inclining her head.

"Spit it out- Ah ain't got all night."

Another smirk curved Chromia's mouthplates. "You're no longer under my division's care. Prowl's returned from Polyhex; you're with him now."

What an odd word choice...

"Ah see."

Jazz lingered a moment more in Chromia's presence, sizing her up. A moment passed when he really could have dived for her throat and torn it out, but he never acted on it. In the end, he spun on his heel and retreated for the door. He didn't want to think of the reason he was going. He didn't want to think of who he was going to see. Least of all, he didn't want to think of what he saw swimming in the old femme's optics. He swept from the room silently, leaving a smirking Chromia with her too-knowing gaze in his wake.


	10. Chapter 10

Holy hells, I have a chapter for this story written in under a month! It's like a miracle! Let's hope this good fortune continues~

My special and sincere thanks to my reviewers: **BoredTech, phoebe turner, shadowblade-tara, lastditch, Shi-koi, Bluebird Soaring, Jinx, FoghornLeghorn84, Sergeant Duck, Optimus Bob, renegadewriter8, Refracted Imagination, GemDragon22, MegamiMao, Dramastar-Mel, flamingmarsh, chaitea16, 1pandamanypanda, Uniasus, DitzyMusicLover, Chloo**, and **Peacewish**! Your kindness, insights, and enthusiasm truly inspire me! From the bottom of my heart, thank you so much for the time and love you show this story. You're all too good for words~

Read, Review, & Enjoy~

**Chapter 10**

Prowl leaned heavily against the unforgivably cold wall, the doorway to his quarters looming darkly ahead of him.

Currently, it was three-quarters into the graveyard shift. The majority of the base was asleep. Prowl had not encountered a single spark since he had exited the docking hangar. Only a skeleton crew of the bare essentials were active, hence there being no one around at this time. Those on duty were always too lax during this shift. Anyone could attack the base.

A pained groan whined from the tactician, one hand gripping the side of his head. He was not suffering a physical wound but one that rested deeper. One thought was all it took to throw his battle computer into a frenzy; a thousand calculations at once. A thousand different ways the base could be attacked. A thousand different statistics. A thousand counteracts to defend the base with. So much information flooding him at once. His already stressed faculties did not brace well under the added pressure.

He shuddered. His vision blurred.

"This is an unmanageable state," he cursed lowly.

It took a moment to suppress his battle computer. He succeeded in only ending the initial onslaught of calculations. The computer itself still thrived in the background. His logic circuits went into overdrive, informing him in no uncertain terms that so long as his emotional centre was turned off his battle computer would be there to make up the difference. Indeed, it did make up the difference and then overcompensated in several instances.

After a breem of blindness, Prowl's vision reinstated. With it came a glare of warnings across his line of sight. He needn't pay attention to them to know what was wrong. He had already memorized the warnings, knew them intimately. He could recite them during recharge if need be. A quick summary of it all: everything was wrong. Wide spread physical damages compounded by the incessant need to have his emotional centre turned back on.

Logically, he knew should have been in the med bay. Protocol dictated that he be treated by a medic for his damages. Tradition called for his verbal abuse and physical torture at the hands of Chief Medical Officer Ratchet. Despite all of that, Prowl was nowhere near the med bay. He desperately needed repairs, but he wanted to isolate himself as far from other company as possible. He was operating on pure logic, and yet he was defying it.

The conundrum he was presenting himself was near enough to turn him inside out.

It was too much right now. He couldn't handle it.

He needed to get inside his room. Lock the door. Turn his emotional centre back on. He needed to deal with the backlash first before he dealt with anything else. Once he was through with one crisis, he would be fit to deal with everything else.

It was almost too much of an effort to raise his head and focus on the nondescript door laying a few paces ahead. Cliché as the statement was, his room was so close yet so very far.

Until recently, his quarters had been located in the same barrack section that everyone else's quarters. Now he found himself lurking in the bowels of Iacon base, dangerously close to Wheeljack's labs. Not the most luxurious spot for a commander- for anyone, really- but he had no room to complain. He had volunteered to be moved here to keep an optic on Jazz.

One advantage of the moment was that his new quarters were so out of the way of the normal activity of base, Prowl was unlikely to be disturbed.

For what he was about to do, he really did not want to be disturbed.

The Polyhex infiltration mission had been a failure. After all that planning, after all of Jazz's assistance, Mirage's hard earned intel… It had all been for nothing. No tactical advantage had been won. No new information gathered. No weakening blow dealt to the Decepticons. If anything, the Autobots had been dealt the blow. The information Jazz had supplied had been too outdated. The saboteur had warned of such a danger when he initially deigned to share. The obsoleteness had only increased the longer Prowl had spent working and reworking his plan of attack. He had been so confident in Jazz's abilities and his own intelligence, he'd blinded himself to all else.

His team had paid the price.

Two dead.

The rest injured.

Prowl's conscience was currently turned off, sparring him from the emotional pain. He knew the moment his emotions returned, guilt would swamp him. He would be brought to his knees by it. It would turn him inside out and make him relive the events over and over. He'd question his every move. He'd question Jazz's every possible motive. He would die inside for the two dead Autobots and feel every wound afresh suffered by the injured. A small part of him felt he deserved the torture for such a heinous failure.

He sucked in a fortifying drag of air, took a step, and stumbled hard.

A familiar spark resonance appeared on scanners shortly before a silver wraith materialized at the end of the hall.

Prowl turned rigid, logic circuits screaming that he could not show weakness to this mech. By his nature alone, Jazz was to be treated with extreme caution. He was threat incarnate. The embodiment of danger.

Locking his frame in a tight, the tactician forced himself to assume a straight, unaffected pose. His faceplate, already blank, became even more so. He became the embodiment of a cold shell.

Too late, though. Jazz's optics were too sharp, his mind too quick. All the saboteur had needed was that single moment of weakness to see all he needed to see. He knew Prowl was compromised. Knew there was weakness to be exploited. It was made too obvious by the wounds he wore. Prowl's head throbbed angrily as his battle computer revved into a frenzy of calculations, giving him a thousand different ways Jazz could attack and a thousand ways he could counterattack.

Jazz, in contrast, stood absolutely still at the end of the corridor. His visor was down, his optics hidden, but the intensity of his stare was undeniable.

Prowl returned the stare as coldly as possible.

"You're back," said the saboteur.

It was such an inane statement that Prowl was momentarily stunned by it. He floundered for a response before properly answering with an equally inane answer: "Yes, I am." He paused for a moment, cycling air through his vents. He noted that Jazz was no longer wearing the tracking collar. "You are still here, I see."

Jazz touched his neck conscientiously. "There was nowhere better ta be at the moment."

"I find that highly unlikely."

"Deal with it."

Prowl's fists clenched. He couldn't feel annoyed in his present state, but he was at war with himself to figure out the best was to dismiss the mech. Most of his options required more energy than he had to spare. Least pleasing of all, Jazz liked to be a contrary mech who complicated everything.

Jazz's visor flipped up without warning, revealing his white optics. He had not flipped his visor up in Prowl's company since the orn he'd defected to the Neutrals. The gesture itself was enough to throw Prowl for another loop. He could not discern the intention in those white optics watching him. Jazz's gaze travelled the battered length of Prowl's frame with diamond-sharpness. Without his visor shielding his stare, his gaze felt doubly intense.

The saboteur lingered on a particularly twisted gouge in Prowl's side, then his gaze slid up to the mech's optics. "Ah didn't give ya false information."

Prowl said nothing; he couldn't be sure of Jazz's intentions. Being the creature that he was, Jazz easily could have lied about everything. It wouldn't have fazed him at all. Prowl tensed a little more. He would not give into weakness. He would not allow himself to fall victim to his adversary.

"Ah didn't lie ta ya, Prowler." Jazz took a step forward. His stance wasn't threatening. It was hard to identify what it was. The saboteur did not stop in his appraisal of Prowl's frame. Finally, he said, "It went bad, didn't it?"

"Obviously."

"Bots died?"

"Yes." Prowl paused, considering whether informing the Neutral of the number of fatalities was inappropriate. Determining no, he announced, "Two are dead."

Jazz didn't flinch or show any emotional reaction to the news. He nodded, continuing to look pensive.

Having no patience for the saboteur's moods, Prowl looked away. "If you will excuse me, I wish to return to my quarters to recharge." In mid-motion of said action, Jazz's voice cut through-

"Why aren't ya in the med bay?"

Prowl forced himself to relax as a secondary wave of rigidity hit him. Jazz was NOT to know his true reasons for not being where he was supposed to be. "I am in need of something more important than what is offered in the med bay, and I require it in complete isolation. So if you please-?"

Jazz ignored the dismissal. "More important than repairs?"

"Yes, now leave me." That was a sufficient enough dismissal that not even Jazz could ignore. However, the silver minibot was not one to take even the most blatant hints when it didn't suit him. Instead, he continued to stand where he was. Prowl growled, his impatience mounting. "As you can see, I am injured, Jazz. I can not provide any sport for you at this moment; either attack me so as to get the urge out of your system or find something else to amuse yourself while I recuperate."

"You're beginning ta piss meh off," Jazz stated, frowning.

"Then leave me," Prowl ordered.

"Ah think Ah'm gonna choose mah own option, actually," Jazz announced haughtily.

Prowl's battle computer was on alert again, causing his head to throb with the agony of the deluge of info. "What option is that?" he dared to ask.

"This." He put his hand to the wall Prowl was leaning against and released a drastic electromagnetic pulse. Several lights in the hall shorted out. Enough power shot through Prowl's frame to throw him to the ground. Before he knew what was happening, Jazz was standing over him. Claws slipped beneath storm-grey chest plating, hauling him to his feet. "You're mah prisoner now. Ah'm gonna do whatever Ah like with ya."

"You will not! I will not allow it!" With the remains of his strength, Prowl fought as valiantly as he could. Sadly, his injuries put him at a disadvantage. The silver mech lashed out without any restraint. Much to Prowl's displeasure, he was overpowered pathetically soon, his arms twisted behind his back and his chest shoved hard against the wall. His vision wavered. He managed to slap Jazz hard with one of his metal wings, but the saboteur only laughed. Opposed to his previous statements, now the Neutral sounded amused.

"Calm down, Prowler- you're gonna hurt yourself struggling like this-."

Prowl fought harder, dictated by his logic circuits and battle computer. He did not register the emotional intonation of Jazz's voice, which was more playful than threatening. Emotion, as it was, was currently negligible.

"Ah mean it, if ya don't calm down on yer own, Ah'm gonna calm ya down for ya." Jazz tightened his lock. "Ya ain't gonna like mah methods."

That, of course, served as nothing but a catalyst for Prowl to struggle harder.

"Okay, fine, be that way." There came a sigh. One of Jazz's hands released him, only to jam up into the crease of his back and wings. "Ah warned ya, Prowler- ya won't like this." Fire suddenly surged through the tactician's frame. The electric shock was too high to be enjoyable. Instead, it made Prowl's whole frame seize. He then went limp, his legs giving out beneath him. The arm Jazz held around him locked tight, supporting him. His other arm dislodged from his back to wind around the front. If an assault had not just occurred, it would have appeared as if Jazz were giving him a hug.

"Release me, Decepticon!" Prowl ordered vehemently.

"Ya didn't ask nicely," Jazz laughed, dragging Prowl down the hall.

"There are cameras recording this assault! Security will be down here any moment!"

"Ah'm not stupid; the cameras are disabled. No one's comin' for ya."

Prowl cursed, his frame spasming from residual electric shocks. He was so occupied with escaping that he failed to realize where he was being taken. Before he knew it, his own door was looming in front of him. Behind him, Jazz was leaning over the control panel and hacking the code. It was barely any consolation to note that it took Jazz a little extra effort to crack the lock and open the door.

"What is the meaning of this?" the tactician demanded, stretching out his metal wings as far as they could go so they caught on the doorframe.

"Can't ya guess?" Jazz grunted, using his shoulder to shove against Prowl's resistance. The doorwings collapsed backwards under the pressure.

"You are kidnapping me and taking me to my own quarters, damn you!" Prowl cursed. "I demand to know your machinations, Jazz!" He dug his heels in. His whole frame was whining in protest against the abuse. Warning signs flashed more vehemently. "You are still working for the Decepticons, aren't you? Have you been a sleeper agent all this time? I should not be surprised!"

Prowl sensed his mistake the moment he made it. Jazz went rigid in the wake of the accusation, and then a snarl accompanied his next attack. The shove was so violent, it threw them both well over the threshold. Prowl hit the floor hard enough that sparks flew upon impact. His vision fizzled out. Jazz landed on top of him, grappling until he twisted Prowl onto his back so the saboteur could straddle him, claws locked like vices around his wrists.

"Look at meh!" Jazz demanded, looming furiously above Prowl.

It took a moment to reinitialize his optics. As soon as the static resolved itself, Prowl was privy to a blazing sight of silver metal and glaring white optics, all wreathed by the darkness of the room.

"Ah am not a Decepticon," Jazz spat, each syllable enunciated sharply.

"All evidence indicates otherwise," Prowl pointed out, jerking his arms against his captor's hold.

Jazz snarled, his claws digging deeper. "Ah belong ta mahself, Prowl. Only mahself. No one else." He sounded as if he were trying to tell himself that as much as he was telling Prowl.

The tactician was not falling for any of the act. He staunchly pointed out: "You are also a proven liar."

Frustration and disgust flashed across the silver mech's faceplate. Without warning, he dropped his faceplate close to Prowl's, glaring. Too close; Prowl jerked up in an attempt to headbutt the mech. Jazz snarled, darting away just in time. In a flash, the saboteur was on his feet, pacing across the cramped room. With distance a factor between them, Prowl wheezed until the world stopped spinning. It was with a great amount of difficulty that he was able to prop himself up on his elbows. He didn't dare lose sight of Jazz.

"I demand to know the purpose of this attack," Prowl ordered the moment he knew he had a steady voice.

Finally, Jazz ended his pacing with a violent twist of movement. "Before ya left, ya trusted meh. Ah wore that fraggin' collar for ya. Ah didn't walk away from this place even though Ah wanted ta. Why are ya acting like this now?"

"There is always a secondary machination with you," Prowl pointed out. "It would be unwise to trust anything from you; indeed, it was most likely a mistake to trust your initial information. The failed mission in Polyhex could have been orchestrated by you in an attempt to finish me off as you failed to do in Straxis and all the time since." As he spoke, internal strain was building to an all-time high. Warning signs pertaining to his emotional center were becoming unmanageable.

For a moment, it looked as if Jazz had been slapped. He stood stone-still for an astrosecond, optics wide, vents heaving, and then he flew into a flurry of sound and movement. "What is wrong with ya?" he crowed, once again on top of Prowl. He was none too gentle in grabbing the front of Prowl's chassis and shaking him hard. "Ya never would have used mah info if ya hadn't trusted it one hundred percent! Ah was tryin' ta help ya, ya fragger! This is how ya repay meh?" More shaking, still not gentle. It was the very essence of violence. Prowl's head lashed back and forth weakly. "What the frag is wrong with ya?"

Yet again, Prowl was stunned by the question. His damages were obvious enough, getting worse by the breem. It should not have been a mystery to the saboteur why he wasn't putting up his usual fight. "Qualify what you are asking, Jazz."

"You!" Jazz exclaimed, accompanied by a sharp gesture that encompassed all of Prowl. "You're not the same! Ah can't read ya no more!"

Prowl blinked. "Read me?"

Jazz shook him again unnecessarily. "Ya know what Ah mean."

With an unsteady dialogue between them, the threat level of the moment decreased. Prowl dared to sit up- even with Jazz's claws still inside his armour. Jazz eased back marginally to allow him the room. Meeting the saboteur's gaze, he stated clearly, "I am sorry, but I do not know what you mean. Explain it to me."

Jazz glowered sourly. "You're back ta how ya were before. Back in Straxis. Ah couldn't read ya then- ya know that. Ah couldn't look at ya and know what ya were thinking. Can't do that now, either. It's drivin' meh insane!" The claws curled into the front of Prowl's armour tightened dangerously. "Tell meh how you're doing it!"

It finally dawned on Prowl what was being demanded of him. He had had his emotional centre turned off while he was a prisoner in Straxis. Being unemotional had helped him remain completely objective. He'd been logical and methodical in dealing with the trauma of his capture. Jazz had been unable to crack his mind that way. Straxis had been the last time Prowl had dared to completely turn off his emotional centre… until now.

There was no way in the pit he would give Jazz the tactical advantage of knowing his dirty little secret; it was a weakness he could not afford when he had so many already. He had failed so many times as Tactical commander already, could he possibly risk any more? The answer was unequivocally no.

"Don't wanna say, huh? Ah'm down with that. Ah'll find out fer mahself one way or the other." He started clawing at Prowl's interface panel, prepared to rip the information from Prowl's head if need be.

Knowing that he did not have the mental or physical capacities to withstand a mental assault against the mech, Prowl latched onto to Jazz's wrists and fought. Jazz had other ideas, becoming further incensed by the resistance. Several magnetic pulses were unleashed, stunning Prowl. The protective panel hiding his port and cable tore off. Jazz's claws dug in, none too gentle in appropriating their prize.

"Finally gonna find out what makes ya tick," the saboteur said, triumph evident. "Been waitin' a long time fer this." And perhaps if he sated that hunger, he would finally be released from this place. If he knew what he wanted to know, there'd be nothing to hold him here.

"Stop! Jazz, cease this now!" Prowl writhed, battle computer going berserk. His head throbbed horribly, distorting his vision. He had a choice- either tell Jazz the truth of his condition, trusting that mech would back off, or allow himself to mentally ravaged and never be same again. Of the former, it was a great risk to take when he had no trust of Jazz to speak of at the moment. Of the latter, he knew there would be no coming back from that fate. He chose the lesser of two evils. "I will tell you what you want to know!"

All movement stopped. Jazz's white optics flashed wide, his hands frozen in midair. His gaze then narrowed suspiciously. "Say that again."

Prowl looked away, steeling himself to say the words. "I will tell you the reason you can't read me."

Prowl's cable was flicked away, forgotten. Cold claws grasped his chin, forcing optic contact. Jazz searched his faceplate for a long breem, but of course he couldn't read the expression that lay there. Everything was a blank slate. A mask. After what felt like an eternity, the saboteur eased back. His expression was guarded, calculating.

"Just like that, you're gonna tell meh?" he asked warily.

"Having you privy to my most guarded secret is preferable to the other option," Prowl responded, pointedly gathering his cable and coiling it away.

Jazz sat straight, frowning. "It's your most guarded secret?"

"Yes." Prowl cycled air through his vents, ending on a pained cough. "However, in this situation, I would rather be compromised than dead."

It was quiet in the room, an aura of unease stretching thick and uncomfortable between them.

"Ah wouldn't have killed ya," Jazz murmured lowly, never looking away. "Even if Ah got inside your head, Ah wouldn't have killed ya."

"I have no guarantee of that," Prowl replied. He was a blank mask, neither happy nor sad. He felt nothing for the situation. He understood it, though. He knew that soon enough he would be forced to turn his emotional centre on and become subject to the tides once again. He had to share his secret and be rid of the mech as quickly and methodically as possible. "You know what I was before the war, yes?"

"Knew it from the moment Ah looked at ya," Jazz nodded, looking wary of what importance the knowledge was worth. "You were a Security Response officer, your frame gives you away as a mech from Simfur. Ya obviously were a pre-programmed tactical officer."

"All true. I was one of five brought online at the same time." Prowl eased backward until his back came to rest against the wall. He cornered himself, yes, but the wall also offered better support and cover should there be need for another fight.

"Out of curiosity, was Smokescreen one of the other five?"

Prowl hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. "Yes, he was. How you surmised that, though..."

"Kinda easy," Jazz shrugged. "He doesn't make no secret of his affection for ya. He relates ta ya on a deeper level than what's normal of two bots from the same precinct, but his attentions are familial rather than romantic." When Prowl blinked unaffectedly, Jazz supplied- "He thinks of ya like a brother."

A optic ridge arched. "I had not realized he paid such obvious difference toward me."

"Ya probably weren't lookin'." Jazz inclined his head. "So ya gonna tell meh how it all matters?"

Prowl nodded solemnly. "You are aware that many Security Response officers, especially for tactical, are brought online without emotions?"

"Of course, it's common knowledge, ain't it-?" Jazz froze for a moment, realization dawning. "Oh."

"Indeed."

"Ya learned them, though," the saboteur pointed out, a subtle frown edging his mouthplates. "Ya have emotions- Ah've seen them."

"They're an inconvenience," Prowl supplied. "I never should have learned them; they are unmanageable and unreliable. In times of extreme stress or need, I have learned to turn off my emotional centre."

The sides of Jazz's mouthplates curled self-deprecatingly, as if the joke was on him. "So that's why Ah couldn't read ya in Straxis- there was nothin' there ta read. Ah should have guessed."

Prowl grimaced. "I find that without emotions to cloud my judgment, I am able to operate with greater efficiency. My logic circuits and battle computer are unhindered."

"A drone with a spark," Jazz sneered.

"If that is what you wish to call it."

"You're a half-bit, ya know that?" Jazz laughed mirthlessly, so cruel and cold. "Even Ah know messin' with something like that ain't smart."

"It is necessary," Prowl supplied.

"It's stupid. Ya learn ta control emotions so they don't control you, not the other way around." He focused his too-knowing gaze on his adversary. "There's a price ta pay for what ya do, isn't there?"

"A backlash of sorts." Prowl gestured to the room around them. "Since I keep my condition a secret between myself and the medics here-."

"An' now meh," Jazz intoned smartly.

A small snort fell from him. "Yes, and now you... I require a private place in which to turn my emotional centre on. The transition can be extremely disconcerting. Ratchet occasionally oversees me, but I prefer to handle myself alone."

Jazz pushed to his feet, pacing to the door.

Prowl canted his head. "You are leaving?"

"No." The front of the control panel was jigged off, allowing Jazz to rewire the internals to his own preference. A new locking code was input. "Ah wanna see it.

"See what?"

"Turn on your emotional centre."

Prowl tensed, having suspected that this would be the outcome. "There is no way to change your mind now, is there?"

A sharp gesture cut through the air, whistling with the strength behind it. "Ah wore a tracking collar for ya, Prowl. Ah sacrificed that part of mah pride just for your peace of mind. Don't that say something ta ya?" It was a rhetorical question, or else Jazz did not want to hear the answer, since he carried on before Prowl could say anything. "The least ya could do is repay meh. Ah don't do things for free."

"You want my pride in payment for yours?"

A moment was taken to consider, and then a nod was given. "Fair is fair, after all."

Prowl's hands curled into fists. "You do not play fair."

"This time Ah will. Ah won't ask ya trust meh, since ya can't right now, but ya already know ya have no chance of gettin' outta here without ya turnin' that damn centre on. Just do it, get it over with, an' no one will be the wiser. Ah won't say a word ta no one." His gaze glinted strangely. "It'll be our little secret."

As Jazz had pointed out, Prowl was well aware that he was not going to be released from the room without giving Jazz what he wanted. No matter how unfavourable the option was, it was the only one for him to accept. He allowed himself one last lingering stare before he made the switch. No sense putting it off anymore.

Accessing emotional centre manual controls: Switching emotional centre on.

He braced himself hard against the wall, waiting for the storm to hit. There was not long to wait. One moment, he was a blank slate inside, blessedly free of turmoil, guilt, anger, or hatred, and in the next moment, he was filled to the brim with all that and more. The sensation was so intense, hitting him with so much force from the inside out, that he felt as if he were coming apart. He hunched over as he suffered the nauseating whirlwind, wrapping his arms around himself in an attempt to hold himself together.

Dimly, he thought he heard Jazz call his designation from somewhere above him.

Memories began to surface. He relived the mission in quick succession, every failure brought to painful light. He saw the death of the first mech on his team- a clean death, if anyone could call it that. He suffered a single plasma strike to the head. In the next moment, he was no more.

Prowl wretched, gagging as the stale taste of energon came up on him. The sensation was fuelled by fury and regret, hatred and failure. Energon roiled more insistently. His tanks gurgled audibly, reacting to the sudden upset being suffered by the rest of the frame.

"Here," someone said, shoving a waste receptacle into his spasming hands.

A shameful dim glow came into the room as bitter energon was purged from between Prowl's mouthplates.

His mind and frame were not done torturing him yet. He saw next the brutal murder of the second mech on his team. The bot had been nothing by a young buck, kind and studious. He had been caught by the other side and tortured, his screaming carrying over the storm of gunfire. In the end, his death had been fraught with pain. The memory of his scream as a spike was driven through his spark resonated in Prowl in the present. The sound, the pitch, the pure agonized terror of it, was something that would undoubtedly haunt him for the rest of his life.

A second wave of energon bubbled up, spilling out. Most of it made it into the waste receptacle. Some of it dribbled down his faceplate, hanging off his chin. He swiped it away angrily, furious that he was in this state. Shame flooded him. He despised that he had to be weak like this. He hated that Jazz had to be the one to see him like this. Most of all, he wished he didn't have to feel anything at all. He loathed everything his emotions stood for. They were pain that ran deeper than physical. They were veils through which his logic was blurred. He was less than his true potential when he suffered from them.

Pride stopped him from crying as the emotional assault continued. He felt the urge to sob and resisted it for all he was worth. That was not a humiliation he wanted to live through on top of everything else. Instead, he rocked back and forth. His arms stayed tight around himself, desperate to hold himself together.

More gagging, even though there was very little to purge now.

Dizziness struck him hard, throwing him from his rocking. The room tilted as he fell to his side in a pathetic heap. Harsh panting and the rattling of his beaten frame were the only sounds in the room. To his utter humiliation, he must have passed out from the extreme stress, because they next thing he knew, he was opening his optics to an eerily quiet room. He wasn't panting anymore, nor was his frame rattling, whining, or groaning. His vision still flashed turbulent warnings of his condition, minus one warning now.

For a moment, Prowl thought he was alone. Movement next to his head dashed that hope. Jazz had moved from the door sometime during his black out, now sitting on the floor next to him. Nausea and shame filled Prowl again, licked by suspicion and fear that something could have been done to him without his knowing. A quick scan told him nothing.

"Ah didn't do anything ta ya," Jazz intoned, reading Prowl's mind.

Restless, Prowl pushed away from the floor. He met the saboteur's gaze, and this time he did find that he trusted what he was being told. Now that he could trust, he did. Odd how he was trusting the last bot on Cybertron anyone else would place their trust in. He nodded to show his understanding, not sure if he could handle words yet. He was too raw.

Jazz hissed a long, low breath of air, staring straight ahead. "That happens every time ya turn it back on?"

Prowl nodded, shuttering his optics. He didn't want to see Jazz's expression.

As it was, Jazz's faceplate hosted no expression. "You're kinda pathetic, ya know? Being a commander an' still not able ta handle yourself."

"I know," Prowl suddenly spat, his voice hoarse. Self-hatred was evident.

"Fair's fair, though. Ya showed meh what Ah wanted ta see. So... thanks."

A long, awkward silence stifled them before Prowl managed to murmur an extremely uncomfortable, "You're welcome." He flicked a brief glance to the silver mech. "Does this mean you will leave now?" An enquiring white stare cast his way, so he elaborated. "You alluded to the mystery of my condition being the one thing that kept you here. Knowing it, you have no ties. Will you leave?"

Jazz gave good consideration to the question, and then shook his head. "No, ya gave meh another reason ta stay." Although, recently, it didn't seem to take much to get him to stay in one place.

"What reason?"

"You." Jazz chuckled mirthlessly. "Don't think Ah'm startin' ta like ya or anything, 'cause Ah feel ashamed for ya. Ah refuse ta be associated with a mech who is so easily brought to his knees like this."

Fists curled, Prowl felt the licks of anger inflame him. With his emotional centre so recently activated, the feeling was ten times the strength it should have been- enough to threaten the weak stability he has been fighting for. He tamped it down on the rampant emotion, forcing his next enquiry out. "What are you proposing?"

The saboteur shrugged. "Ah'm gonna stick around ta teach ya how ta master your emotions so you're not controlled by them like this. Ya can't go on as ya are- that would only end in disaster. Ah'm your best hope, whether ya like it or not."

Disbelief now coloured the tactician. If he was perfectly honest with himself, he could say even Jazz looked astonished by his own proposal.

"We've already established that you do nothing for free," Prowl pointed out shakily. "What will you get out of this arrangement?"

A disgruntled noise rattled from Jazz. "Ah'll... figure it out."

"Do you think I can learn?" Prowl wondered uncertainly.

Jazz appraised him critically, and then cracked a harsh smirk. "You're smart, in your own way. You'll learn. Ah'm gonna let ya know now, it's not gonna easy."

"Nothing concerning the two of us ever is," Prowl replied.

He had meant the statement as a neutral observation, but the way their gazes met as he said it brought a whole other feeling to it. An uncomfortable, awkward feeling.

"There's nothing we can do tonight, so we might as well recharge," Jazz intoned to break the heavy pause. "We'll both figure things out later, when we're thinkin' clearly."

"Later, yes, of course," Prowl agreed, sounding reasonable and out of his mind at the same time.

As a testament to how unclearly they were both thinking at the moment, both mechs shuttered their optics and fell into an uncomfortable recharge next to each other.


	11. Chapter 11

Quite the adventures Jazz and Prowl seem to be getting into with each other- I can't tell you all how much I love writing this story, or how much I absolutely adore how much you all are enjoying the read. I was so inspired by the strong response to last chapter to work extra hard to get this one up.

Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review the last chapter: s**hadowblade-tara, Gatekat, Shinigami-Sama1, Bluebird Soaring, Anon, Peacewish, BoredTech, ShadowedBlossom, Phoebe Turner, PrancingTiger86, flamingmarsh, JenEvan, Optimus Bob, Eerie Iri, renegadewriter8, 1pandamanypanda, Dramastar-Mel, optimus prime 007, Kai-Chan94, DitzyMusicLover, Uniasus, Lady Tecuma, Hiding In My Writing, chaitea16, TylaraRemember**, and **Kyme**. I am truly humbled by your insight, enthusiasm, and love for this story. You all truly make me want to set aside reality and write this story nonstop. If only that were possible! XD

Dedications to my dearest **FunkFish1991**, who is my ever-wonderful editor full of awesomeness and the ability to edit, because I don't have the patience. Fish, you are the Buffy the Vampire Slayer to all my typo-demons. You kick ass. XD

**Chapter 11**

"_Prowl? Prowl, I know you are in there! I demand that you unlock this door immediately or Ironhide is going to blast it down!"_

Jazz snapped online just as a fist connected with the solid surface of a metal door nearby. He felt the impact vibrate the wall at his back, vaguely impressing him with the sheer violent power displayed by the punch. However, the vitriol of the demands washed over him without evincing any immediate demand for action. He sat up a little straighter, stretched, and looked to the side. There was no light in the room aside from what was given off by his optics, but Prowl's inert shape could easily be made out as he continued to lay stationary on the floor.

Jazz canted his head, taking a moment to get his memory files caught up with the present. He was slumped, rather uncomfortably, on the floor of Prowl's room. The owner of said room was laying next him, clearly out cold and looking worse for wear. Jazz's optics flashed, finally settling on the context behind the unusual scene. He grinned, despite the continuing attack coming at the door across from him.

He was now in possession of one of Prowl's most guarded secrets. A knowledge that could easily destroy the mech, or at least destroy his pride, if it were ever to become common knowledge to the Autobots. It was the answer to one of the most frustrating mysteries about the mech.

For all intents and purposes, Jazz now owned the secret, and by extension, he owned Prowl. Even if ownership had been forged through blackmail. Whatever works, right?

However, if memory served, he had also promised to _help_ the tactician with his little emotional issues. That did not bode well for the saboteur. He couldn't even directly describe the urge that had made him offer his services to Prowl like that. It had just happened. And that was disturbing. What was it worth to him if one little Autobot couldn't handle the dark side of life? It shouldn't have mattered. Yet in this case it did.

Did he actually plan to stick around and help Prowl, or was this all part of some amazingly complex plan building subconsciously in his mind for his eventual escape and betrayal of the Autobots?

He didn't know. Damn it.

A second, third, and fourth fist landed on the door in quick succession. The mech on the other side, who turned out to be Ratchet, was becoming increasingly loud. He clearly did not appreciate being ignored.

Prowl suddenly startled awake, arms flailing beneath him to sit up. He fumbled once, fell, and then tried again and managed to hoist himself up. His optics flashed bright and wide.

Jazz studied him for a moment, noting the obvious flash of emotions that played across the other mech's faceplate. It was for only a brief moment, muted as they were, but surprise was there accompanied by a veil of momentary fright, before Prowl dialled down into his normal state of aloofness. Not emotionless as last night had demonstrated, but suffering under a state of suppressed and repressed emotional being.

_Interesting_. Jazz wondered how he'd missed that little detail all this time. It was so obvious now.

A thousand thoughts and calculations ran past Prowl's optics as he took in his current circumstances. If he suffered any discomfort from his injuries, he didn't show it. With a groan, he sat back against the wall and leaned his head back. Most likely a self-diagnostic was being run before facing Ratchet's wrath, making sure he had enough strength to deal with the medic. Through it all, he staunchly ignored Jazz's presence. He did not make optic contact. He did not even dare look Jazz's way. In fact, it was kind of like Jazz wasn't even in the room.

Which, all things considered, was a little insulting. Wasn't Jazz the All Mighty Keeper of Prowl's Ultimate Secret? A little acknowledge would have been nice.

The next assault on the door resulted in a resounding explosion of noise that would only have meant a plasma discharge at close range. Or, alternately, trigger-happy Ironhide had finally lost his patience.

"_Prowl!" _boomed the weapons specialist. _"I am NOT standing out here all orn long. I don't know what the pit you did to the door, but you unlock it now or you're not going to have a door when I'm done with it!" _

"_I'm not going to stop him!" _Ratchet intoned, as if the threat of imminent door-destruction wasn't enough. _"You did not come down the med bay when you got back. I gave you time to do what you needed to do as a courtesy, but time's up! You should have shuffled your damn aft into my bay joors ago!" _Someone's fist once again rebounded off the solid surface of the now thoroughly dented door. _"You unlock and open this door now, or it's coming down!" _

"Ya gonna get that?" Jazz asked as he inclined his head to the owner of the room, enjoying the look of outrage and incredulity simmering in the other mech's optics. The rest of his faceplate was absolutely stationary, but Prowl's optics were alive with the undisguised storm of what he felt.

"They have lost their minds," he growled. In a blur of movement, Prowl was on his feet. His error in judging his wellbeing became obvious when his knees weakened, giving out from underneath him. He stumbled to the side, into his berth. The bang that followed was loud enough to cut through the medic's tirade. A short silence followed, filled in by Prowl's hissed curses for his own weakness.

Jazz leaned back comfortably and watched his companion struggle. He did suffer the urge to rise and help the tactician, felt a distinct pity for his current weakness, but he ignored it. He didn't want to get involved just yet. He wanted to watch the scene play out. Whatever was going to happen would be undoubtedly interesting.

Ratchet and Ironhide resumed their two-mech siege, though the medic was by far the loudest of the pair.

"_What was that bang in there? Are you injured, Prowl? Of course you're injured, you just came back from a botched mission! I should be asking __**are you dying**__?"_

Prowl scowled darkly- "I am within operational parameters, Ratchet."

There came a snort. _"What what is that supposed to mean- '_operational parameters_'? Ha! All your limbs __could be blasted from your body and you'd still probably say you were fine if you could still think clearly enough!" _

A growl of pure annoyance vibrated from Prowl's chassis. "All of my limbs are fully attached."

Jazz arched an optic ridge, taking note of the doorwing he had twisted the night before. It wasn't fully attached. Again, he felt the urge to rise, to help, to set the metal wing right, but stubbornly resisted.

Ratchet was still having his tantrum in the hall, not at all soothed by Prowl's words. _"Don't avoid the subject at hand, Prowl. Get your aft out here so I can take you by your damn chevrons and drag you to the med bay! Damn it, I __**knew**_ _you should have come straight to me for treatment! Damn you for being so stubborn! Damn me for taking pity on your sorry carcass!"_

"If you would simply calm down and allow me to open the door, we can have a reasonable conversation about my current circumstances," Prowl replied, though the words were a little tight. He gritted himself for a step forward, and then another. He stopped abruptly and swung around, finally acknowledging Jazz's presence with a caustic stare.

"Finally remembered meh, did ya?" Jazz drawled.

"I don't want you to be seen by them," Prowl said lowly through gritted mouthplates.

Jazz inclined his tauntingly. "Ah'm your dirty little secret, am Ah?"

"Considering the circumstances, _yes_. They should not know you are here; undoubtedly, your presence will only make things worse." His shame and embarrassment over having Jazz in his room was evident. Unsurprising, really. That didn't dull the slight sting of it, though.

"Any suggestions, genius?" Jazz snorted back.

"_Hide!"_ came the snapped order.

Both optic ridges arched in incredulity. Prowl's room was among the most barren holes to have ever been lived in; not exactly the kind of place bursting with hiding places. Jazz let his annoyance be known in his expression and tone. "What do ya expect meh ta do- transform into a piece of furniture?"

"I don't care what you do-."

"_Prowl? Are you talking to yourself in there?"_ Ratchet suddenly demanded.

Prowl went rigid. If they dared scan the room for spark resonances, they'd know for certain he wasn't talking to himself. "I- no, of course not! I was-."

"_Does it matter? You're wasting time. Ironhide is more than willing to open the door his way."_

"There's no need to resort to those methods," Prowl snapped, though still glaring at Jazz, who refused to move from his comfortable spot on the floor.

Jazz grinned, no shortage of mocking as he made a shooing gesture for Prowl. "Go on, Prowler, open the door. Wouldn't want ta keep them waitin'."

"Damn you," he cursed, glaring.

"Ah'd be a little nicer ta meh, if Ah were you. Ah do hold your precious little secret hostage, don't Ah?" Jazz made the shooing gesture again, this time decidedly more imperiously. "Now, go on. Open the door and face your humiliation."

With no other choice, Prowl limped to the control panel next to the door frame. He paused over the ripped open panel, wires cut and twisted in completely new patterns. While his memories of the night before may have been vague and patchy at best, he knew Jazz's work when he saw it. He was in no mental or physical condition to break any code Jazz would have placed on the door while in the vindictive mood he had been in the night before.

Jazz saw the moment of realization for what it was, smirking in minor triumph. "That's right, Ah locked it."

Prowl spun around, hand braced against the way so he didn't fall. His fingers curled into the metal, small grooves appearing in their wake. "_Un_lock it. Now."

"Ask meh nicely," Jazz goaded.

"How about we wait for Ironhide to blast the door down and let him take you. I'm sure you can appreciate what a _gentle_ handler he would be." The steel in the tactician's tone was not to be trifled with.

With a sigh, Jazz popped to his feet. "Fine, be that way. The damn door'll be open in a breem." He shouldered Prowl out of the way and got to work on the codes he'd input joors before. Just to spite his company, Jazz let his presence be known to the bots in the hall. "Don't be getting your circuits in a knot, Ratch'. Prowl will be out in a breem- just as soon as Ah'm done with him."

A disgustingly satisfying silence of pure horror followed Jazz's announcement. He could practically _feel _the shock turn palpable in the air. Prowl still standing at his shoulder tensed to an impossible degree, fists clenched, probably on the verge of attacking. A hissing noise rattled his vents. Above the furious hissing came the whining-hum of Ironhide's charging cannons. Unlike most sane creatures, Jazz was rather more humoured than wisely being nervous of them.

"_Jazz?"_ Ratchet hissed.

"That would be meh." Codes easily broken, Jazz deftly weaved frayed wires back into their proper places. He was in no hurry so he merrily took his time. The door would open when he felt like it.

A wave of barely restrained violence washed through the room as Jazz and Prowl became privy to Ironhide's glowering approach. They could _feel_ him on the other side of the door, his anger quickly charging the air. The whine of his cannons grew louder, more ominous.

"_You slimy piece of Decepticon trash- if you dare lay a hand on Prowl-."_

Decidedly less than impressed with the burgeoning threat, Jazz cut it off with a swift bang on the door. "Ah've been in here all night and Ah ain't done nothin' ta the mech, so unless ya wanted meh ta change mah mind in the next 5 astroseconds, Ah'd shut the frag up if Ah were you."

"_You've been in there, with Prowl, __**all night**__?"_ Ratchet exclaimed, borderline horrified.

Finally the door hissed open, allowing Jazz to lean into the open door frame nonchalantly in the face of two mechs larger than he was and possibly a little bit more unstable. Staring danger in the faceplates had never been so much fun. Giving them his particular brand of superiority only made the situation better, goading them.

Ratchet's gaze locked on him, so hot it would have burned a lesser being. _"All night?"_ he snarled.

"Yeah, all night," the saboteur confirmed with a smirk.

"Slaggin' Primus," someone cursed in the background.

It was then that Jazz realized it was not just a cozy little foursome involved in this confrontation. As with the Decepticons, and any other self-respecting half-bit looking for entertainment, when a commotion could be heard, bots came running in hopes of seeing something interesting. The Autobots were no different. Wheeljack stood at the end of the hall, shock evident on his faceplate. Sideswipe was not far behind, accompanied by Warpath. In their arms were cubes of energon labelled 'volatile material', which undoubtedly was code for potent high-grade. Sideswipe's cubes slid to the floor as he stared in shock, one arm raised to point unintelligibly at Jazz. There were others still gathering, but their faceplates blended into the background, meaningless optics ogling something new and slightly disturbing.

_'This just keeps gettin' better and better,' _Jazz thought wryly. Prowl attempted to shove around him into the hall, but a twisted tension wire in his foot didn't like the pressure. He stumbled. It was only Jazz's quick reflexes that caught him by an arm and hauled him to his feet. Without his second doorwing for proper centre of gravity, Prowl overbalanced and went careening backwards into Jazz, who had no choice but to catch the larger mech and brace him lest they both crash to the floor. The resulting position was both intimate and publicly humiliating.

Murmuring suddenly broke out from the gathered crowd, most of it excited whispering. It was the nightmarish beginnings of uncontrollable gossip that would sweep the Autobot ranks like wildfire. Sideswipe's voice rose above the general noise, familiar and full of mischief:

"_I am so saving this to my hard drive and sending it to everyone on base..." _

Prowl went rigid again. Jazz snarled, clearly not in the mood to be laughing over the situation when it had spiralled out of his control. Everything had been fine until Prowl stumbled, and now... Now there was no controlling whatever happened. It would make the game more difficult, and not in a fun way. Concentrated scrutiny from others was not something that Jazz enjoyed too much when he was much more accustomed to bots avoiding optic contact at all costs.

The incendiary glare he shot Sideswipe was enough to melt armour. As quick as the red Autobot was, he instantly picked up on the promise of pain should he let this little incident pass beyond the confines of the corridor. His mouthplates sealed shut, backing down a step. It was no guarantee of anything, but his temporary submission was better than nothing.

A flood of irritation tightened his hold on Prowl, which bothered a wound in the tactician's side. Prowl grunted, struggling to get away.

"Enough of that!" Ironhide snapped. Taking each bot in hand, he forcibly separated them as if they were clinging lovers. The connotation was not lost on the pair, and both were hit with a sense of irritated annoyance and further humiliation.

With the situation having spun so quickly and irreversibly out of his control, Jazz spiralled into an increasing foul mood that translated into a threatening tension lacing his serpentine frame. Ironhide felt it and reacted accordingly; Prowl was shoved into Ratchet's care and Jazz was swung around until his smaller frame was ground into the wall with the black mech's considerable full weight bearing down on him.

"Get off meh!" Jazz howled, instantly whipped into a frenzy.

Ironhide growled, grinding the smaller mech deeper into the wall.

Steadying Prowl impatiently, Ratchet bristled and huffed. His expression told of his confusion and suspicion, unsure what to make of the situation. Should he be worried that a creature as dangerous as Jazz had been in close proximity to someone as valuable to the Autobot cause as Prowl? The mere thought elicited all sorts of fears about sensitive information being compromised, possible reprogramming of Prowl, and whatever else Jazz could do to a mech in a few short joors alone. Or should he be worried that they might have spent the night together _voluntarily_? The very thought of what that could mean was perhaps more horrifying than any other possibility.

Both Ratchet and Ironhide jerked straight when an incoming transmission buffered through their consciousnesses. Wheeljack from down the hall had a similar reaction, while no other Autobot showed any outward signs of being contacted.

His movements stiff, Ratchet turned to regard the small gathering of curious bots at the end of the hall. "Sideswipe, Warpath, if you would please escort Prowl to the med bay? First Aid is awaiting his arrival and will be able to treat him there." His hard gaze switched to Wheeljack. "You're with us, 'Jack."

"Right you are," the engineer intoned, his normally jovial mood subdued.

"That's all nice and dandy for ya all, but Ah'd really like it if ya got the tank off of meh before Ah have ta kill all of ya," Jazz snarled, his mood devolved to that of a black storm cloud as he continued to be crushed.

Ratchet eyed him stonily. "You're with us as well."

"Don't Ah get any say in this?" Jazz spat, having decided exactly how he was going to kill every living Autobot currently gawking at him. He'd do it slowly and painfully, fully able to enjoy their tortured screams as he took them apart piece by piece. He'd save Ratchet and Ironhide for last, and would take particular enjoyment in their dismemberment.

"No. No say. No choice," Ironhide growled. "You're coming with us whether you like it or not, Decepticon." Jazz's vision jerked as he was hauled backwards by heavy hands, his arms arrested behind his back. Fury burned bright behind his lowered visor as he directed his gaze to Prowl, now supported by the three Autobots summoned forward. Their gazes met.

"Tell them ta lay off, Prowler, or they're all gonna hear somethin' real interestin' before Ah kill 'em," Jazz threatened lowly. "You don't want meh ta start talking, now do ya?"

Prowl's faceplate hardened, realizing the full weight of the weakness he now suffered. Although Jazz had promised to "help" him, that would not stop the saboteur from using what he knew to his advantage. The thought of what could come of it made Prowl sick. However, as things stood, he was forced to meet Ironhide's stormy gaze. "Jazz has done nothing wrong-," nothing he would admit to in a thousand vorns, "-so ease up on your treatment of him. He will go wherever it is you wish to take him with minimal argument if you show him a modicum of _respect_. Your current treatment of either of us is intolerable."

Jazz's mouthplates curled. With or without respect, the moment Ironhide loosened his grip, they were all going down.

Prowl's gaze swung back to Jazz, a small glimmer of something beyond irritation and mortification lurking there. A side of imploring. "Please, do as they say." That glimmer crystallized into something colder and harder. "Do _not _kill any of them."

"No promises," Jazz spat.

"Fine, do as you will." He didn't dare press the subject when his secret was at risk of being used out of spite. Prowl regarded Ratchet and Ironhide coldly. "Whatever you are thinking, dismiss it now. Nothing intimate or unbecoming occurred between us last night. I would hope that you both think me more capable of a higher level of professionalism than that."

Jazz barked a hard, bitter laugh. Yeah, they'd been _so_ professional last night.

Prowl glared, but nonetheless allowed himself to be guided away by Warpath, though staunchly avoiding Sideswipe at all costs.

Wheeljack got a little antsy, his fins flashing. He came up on Ratchet's shoulder, shooing him along. "Come on, we shouldn't keep them waiting."

Spurred into action, Jazz was once again jerked ahead and made to move ahead of the small pack of commanding Autobots. No longer in sight of Prowl, his impatience and temper spilt over, manifesting in a violent twist that extracted him from Ironhide's hold.

"Ya fraggin' touch meh again and Ah'll rip your arms off," he spat, brushing his armour off as if to get rid of all traces of Autobot filth.

Ironhide glared darkly, raising his cannons. "Give me a reason and I will gladly put you through a wall."

"Hey now, hey- Prowl asked for a little bit of respect," Wheeljack intoned, daring to come close to Jazz's side with an uneasy smile. The expression was a tad forced, a bit uncomfortable. "If Prowl says nothing happened, then nothing happened. And, besides, it ain't none of our business if something did come about, yeah?"

Despite the fact that the engineer was only trying to smooth the situation over, Jazz was in no mood for it. He shot the mech a glare that cindered the Autobot's false cheer and had him meekly backing up to take refuge beside Ratchet.

The walk from the basement of one complex to the main outpost, through all the open courtyards and active corridors, was one of the longest ordeals Jazz had ever had to suffer through. The sheer humiliation of being escorted through Iacon by Ironhide and the others was beyond comprehension. Being paraded under the optics of every possible Autobot on base was yet another slap to his faceplate. Their expressions ranged from morbidly curious of the scene to downright hostile. To his enhanced audios, he could hear some of the spiteful barbs they tossed his way. Every once in a while, Ironhide would growl and prod his back with the burning heat of his plasma cannons, grunting which direction they were supposed to take.

What had he done to deserve half the reactions he'd received so far? No matter which way Jazz looked at it, some bots were overreacting, and it sure as pit wasn't him! He was perfectly justified in his own violence since it was in reaction to everyone else's. And he could almost understand some bots being damned surprised at finding him in a locked room with precious, mentally-fragile _Prowl, _but after all the damned time they've spent together on base, it shouldn't have been all that world-shattering to find them in the same room. Even if they were all assuming the wrong thing. What was with all the extra glaring? The barely-veiled hostility? Frag, it was like he was back to orn one, minus the fear and multiply the hate.

By the end of his march of shame, he was on the very verge of a berserker breakdown. To his left, someone sniffed haughtily.

"Shouldn't he be in stasis cuffs?"

Jazz's head swung to the side so sharply, it made the other mech take an involuntary step back. Ice-cold optics to match ice-cold paint met his appraisal, announcing the lithe mech as none other than the commander of Intelligence & Espionage, Mirage. There was not a bot in all the Autobot forces who was as condescending as this particular heap of slag. How his own division could stand him continued to be a mystery.

"Ah dare ya ta try cuffs on meh," Jazz hissed.

Not much taller than Jazz himself, Mirage stared down his olfactory sensor as if he were looking down at a smear on the floor. His expression made it clear that he thought it beneath him to even bother farthing the conversation. Without further exchange, he pressed forward into the war room/conference room. A brief tide of low murmuring assaulted Jazz's audios- he heard the voices of several instantly recognizable bots; Optimus Prime, his second in command Ultra Magnus, as well as the soft intonations of the femme commander Elita One.

Jazz craned his head around to peer at the three stony mechs behind him. "Ah'm in a murderous mood an' you're takin' meh into a room full of the most valuable figures to the Autobot cause? Have ya lost your Primus-damned minds?"

"Fer all yer blustering, you haven't exactly done anything yet," Wheeljack intoned semi-helpfully, only to be slapped with a furious glare. The engineer was quick to raise his hands in defence. "Don't kill me."

Ratchet jerked his chin toward the door. "Just get in there, will you?"

With a snort, Jazz shoved into the room. The moment he made his appearance, silence fell over the small crowd. Around the long table sat every commander operating in Iacon, minus the head tactical adviser, who happened to be in the med bay.

Noting the empty chair directly across from Optimus, Jazz grabbed it and made himself comfortable. Leaning back, he swung his feet up on the table, nearly kicking tiny microbot Blaster to the floor. The near-assault paid a small bit of satisfaction to the saboteur.

"Watch it," snapped the microbot, standing up, brushing himself off, and marching to the other side of tabletop where he could take refuge under Optimus Prime's protection with his fellow microbot Perceptor.

Ratchet, Ironhide, and Wheeljack took their respective seats as commanders of their own divisions. Mirage was already settled into his own seat, next to the Special Operations commander, Blackhawk. No one, not even Prime, looked marginally happy to see him. To be perfectly honest, the small collection of Autobots either looked as if Jazz had stolen a loved one and sold them on the black market, or they just really, really wanted to kill him. No, if Jazz was going to be truly honest with himself, he'd have to admit that most of his audience looked like a good mixture of both.

Fully aware that holding on to his anger in a dangerous situation like this was only a way to get himself killed, Jazz fell back into a mask of cold calculation. Unlike Prowl, he had perfect control of his emotions. The silence stretched on, growing heavier with each passing astrosecond. The stolen time gave him the opportunity to assess each commander present, taking their measure and what investment they might have in being present in whatever kind of farce was being hosted.

"Ya know, it's been mah experience that if you're gonna do a debriefing, ya might want the bots who'd been on the fragged up mission ta be present," Jazz intoned, shattering the tense disquiet.

Optimus leaned forward. "They've been through enough trauma as it is; I'm giving them time to recover before they are subjected to a proper debriefing." He met Jazz's gaze steadily. "I called this meeting about you, actually."

"Ah'm flattered," Jazz sneered. "Could bad news travel any faster around here? Just a handful of ya find out Ah corner your precious Prowl for a night an' not even a joor later there's an emergency meeting? When you half-bits overreact, ya'll _overreact_."

Optimus arched both optic ridges. "I was not aware that you had... spent the night with Prowl." By his tone alone, he had come to the wrong conclusion of the matter. The brief looks shared between the other commanders revealed their own wrong conclusions. That only served to irk Jazz more; seriously, did they really have that little faith in their tactical commander? On that note, didn't they think Jazz had better taste in a bot than _Prowl? _

Clenching his fists, Jazz intoned tightly, "It's not what ya all think."

"I certainly hope not," Mirage murmured haughtily, instantly placing himself at the top of Jazz's _Must Kill_ list.

"Whatever the case may be, I think something such as that should be discussed during the course of this meeting," Prime intoned seriously.

"Ah wasn't aware that private matters between two bots was everyone else's business around here. If Ah'd known, Ah wouldn't have bothered," Jazz snorted. "Ah gotta admit, being knocked around and paraded about ain't mah favourite way ta start an orn. What is it that ya wanted ta discuss so badly ya had ta ruin mah whole orn for it?"

Optimus hesitated for a moment, frowning. He glanced briefly to Elita One at his side, who inclined her head in encouragement. Prime met Jazz's gaze once more. "Are you still working for the Decepticons, Jazz?"

A sudden flash of ice washed through the saboteur. Everything froze, from his frame to his spark. When his mind caught up with the accusation, he swung his legs down from the table and leaned over it. He still has an iron-fisted grasp on his emotions, but it took a little more effort than usual to disguise the scowl wanting to mar his faceplate.

"Ah should have guessed," he spat. "Ya fraggin' think Ah set ya up." There was no shortage of... _hurt_ in his voice. He was _hurt_ that they would all think he'd do something like that to them. Prowl had assumed the exact same thing. It wasn't that he wanted the Autobots to think him trustworthy, but at the same time... why didn't they think any better of him?

"What else are we to think when we stage a mission into enemy territory based on information you, a known dangerous Decepticon, have given us, and the mission turns into a slaughter?" Mirage said smoothly.

"Ah wasn't the only one supplying information, now was Ah?" Jazz hissed. "Maybe Ah'm not the only one this meetin' should be interrogating."

Mirage came to his feet. "Are you accusing me of setting up my own people?"

"No different than you callin' meh out," Jazz spat.

An ice cold laugh drifted from the other mech as he trailed his gaze up and down the saboteur, making no secret that he found Jazz lacking. "Not to point out the blindingly obvious, but I find that there is a _distinct_ difference between you and I."

Optimus rumbled quietly, directing a hard stare toward the Master Spy. "Mirage, sit down." To Jazz, he inclined his head. "Jazz, if you please? We just want to cover all of our bases and make sure that..."

"That Ah'm not plannin' ta kill ya all in while ya recharge? Sell ya all out ta the Decepticons whenever Ah feel like it? Sabotage ya all while you're not looking?" Jazz snapped, sitting back down stiffly. "If Ah wasn't thinkin' it before, Ah damn well am thinkin' it now. With interest."

Ironhide growled darkly. Elita reached over and surprisingly swatted him on the shoulder. The femme fixed her steady gaze on him, inclining her head toward him.

"We just want to understand you better, Jazz," she said, her voice smooth yet commanding. Jazz was reminded of how deceptively powerful she was in her own right. "You have been with us for a while now and yet we still know so little about you. The only bot you have shown any interest in is Prowl, and he is not one to share extraneous details. If we could understand your motives better-."

"Motives? Ya wanna know about motives?" He snorted, shaking his head self-deprecatingly. "Ah ain't got no idea what Ah'm doing here no more. How's that for motives?"

Elita arched her optic ridges, looking entirely unperturbed by the admittance. "Chromia informs me differently."

Jazz bristled. "That femme don't know a damn thing. She ain't got the sense ta keep outta mah business."

Blackhawk leaned forward, and it was then that Jazz noted the dissonance between the mech's optics- one was very dark blue while the other was almost white. Odd. "As we've said, we only want to understand you better. If that means that we pry into your business, then so be it. Your personal sanctity does not outweigh the safety of the bots in Iacon."

"Even if that means going into mah head yourself and rootin' around for the truth?" Jazz challenged. "Ya think you're up for somethin' like that? Ah could turn ya inside out in an astrosecond."

"That is a risk I am willing to take," Blackhawk replied solemnly. His accent was strange as well, like his optics. Probably a colony accent. They all tended to be a little strange.

"I could rig up a buffer that would prevent Jazz from getting into anyone's heads if they interfaced with him..." Wheeljack offered uneasily.

"An' blow our heads off in the process? No thanks. Ah'd rather take mah chances with the lot of ya gangin' up on meh," Jazz spat. Wheeljack's fins flickered, his embarrassment there for everyone to see.

Optimus sighed. "Jazz, this is not about us ganging up on you or getting into your head without your expressed permission. We want to know... _I _want to know, did you leak information to the Decepticons about Prowl's team? Were they informed of the impending infiltration?"

Jazz met the Prime's stare for an endless moment, fixated by those fathomless depths of blue. When he finally managed to look away, he shook his head in the negative. "Ah didn't give the Decepticons anything."

"He could be lying," Mirage said.

"He _is_ lying," Ironhide growled.

Jazz pushed to his feet. "Ah am so not in the mood for this. Ya obviously have already decided Ah did it, so Ah might as well walk mahself ta the brig," he spat, spinning for the door. He took two steps, froze in his third step, and then spun around. "Ya know what? You're all half-bits, ya know that? Prowl included." He spun away again, made it to the door, and growled in frustration as he turned on his heel back to the room. "This is ridiculous. Why am Ah even botherin' ta defend mahself ta you? You're just Autobots. Ya don't matter. None of this matters. Ah should leave right now and not look back!"

He was right at the door. So close to freedom. And he wasn't going anywhere.

"The door is right there, Jazz," Ratchet goaded lowly, though loud enough for the room to hear.

A loud rev vibrated from deep within Jazz's chassis. He found himself... wishing Prowl was present in the room. At least with Prowl, Jazz wouldn't have had to stand against them all by himself. Not that he needed that half-bit to hold his own, but some company would have been nice. Someone who was on his side.

Disgusted with himself, Jazz jerked back for his seat and sat down with a huff. "From the orn Ah've been here, Ah've been helpin' ya! Ah've given ya hideouts where the Decepticons were attacking from, maps through territories, all the tactical information Ah can think of, and it don't mean slag ta ya all. Ah might not be askin' for any of your trust, but you'd think a little bit of respect would be nice. Instead, Ah get carted around by Bruticus over there-." he jerked his chin in Ironhide's direction, who glowered ever more darkly. "He's not the most gentle creature on the planet, ya know?"

Ironhide rumbled darkly, flexing his fists.

"Everything you have mentioned could very well have all be an elaborate trap," Perceptor suddenly intoned. "It is not beyond the realm of possibility that everything you have ever done from the very beginning was in a bid to gain our trust for our ultimate downfall."

Jazz snorted. "An' don't ya think Ah would have been long gone by now if my plan for your downfall was underway? Trust meh, if Ah wanted ya all dead, ya would be dead. If Ah wanted ta leave and never be found, Ah'd be nothing but a ghost." He flicked his hand in the air. "Not to mention that, despite what ya think, the Decepticons aren't that stupid. They know Ah know everything there is ta know about them; the moment Ah walked away, they probably changed all their access codes and guard rotations. They've been expectin' an attack all this time, an' ya finally gave it ta them. They were prepared and they handed your afts ta ya."

"He has a point," Blackhawk said reasonably, if not sombrely.

"He is a Decepticon," Mirage countered ruthlessly, as if 'Decepticon' was synonymous with 'liar'.

"_Former_ Decepticon," Jazz corrected tightly.

"He really has been helping us in his own ways, you know," Wheeljack shrugged. "He's a bit of a pain, but so are the Twins... Being a nuisance isn't the same as working against us."

"What proof is there that his is at all what he says he is?" the Master Spy insisted, turning his olfactory sensor up. "We have no proof of anything. So what if he has helped us in some minor ways? What evidence is there of his innocence in the act of staying here too long? He probably stayed to wait for an opportunity to kill Prowl when his own faction failed to do so in Polyhex."

Jazz's fists clenched for a moment as he reined back the maelstrom of violence that wanted to be unleashed on Mirage's faceplate. "Ah had plenty of time ta kill Prowl last night when Ah stayed in his room." His gaze snapped to Prime. "Ya want proof that Ah ain't no Decepticon, then ya got permission ta look inside mah head, but not any of you do it. Prowl does it an' no one else. Ya understand?"

"Seems fair enough. I'm surprised you would concede that much to us," Optimus said, almost smiling. Jazz was almost taken aback by how easily the Prime accepted the ultimatum. It was almost as if he... trusted him?

"Absolutely not!" Mirage objected, shooting to his feet. "This is ridiculous!"

"Don't be so hasty, Prime," Ratchet snorted loudly. "He could have easily reprogrammed Prowl last night; he could have been made to say anything when looking into Jazz's mind. There's no telling what's been done until I have a look at him."

Jazz sneered. "Prowl is one fragged up bot no matter what way ya look at him, and none of it is mah doing. Ah wouldn't have touched his mind last night even if ya paid meh; Ah would'a spent the whole night defraggin his head and then Ah'd spend the rest of mah orn defraggin' mine." He fixed his gaze on Ratchet. "Ya know exactly what Ah'm talkin' about, don't ya? Last night, when it all came rushin' back, his mind was the last place anyone wanted ta be."

Ratchet froze, shock blanking his features. "He showed you that side of himself."

_He didn't have much of a choice, but..._ "Yes."

"What side?" Elita enquired curiously, speaking for the interest of all Autobots present. None were privy to Prowl's inner most secrets, a status quo the tactician in question would undoubtedly prefer to be kept.

"None of your business," Jazz snapped. It was his secret to lord over Prowl with. He wasn't sharing with no one.

Optimus sat back, which caught the optics of most. They mirrored him, subsiding into the seats so as not to appear too out of control in the situation.

"What sides Prowl chooses to show or keep to himself are inconsequential," Prime mediated. "Jazz, it is my opinion that you are not the same mech you were the orn you came here-."

Jazz snorted, recalling the exact same words falling from Chromia's mouthplates. He'd wanted to smack the femme then, and yet he wanted to hear what the Prime had to say now. And then smack him.

Prime continued regardless. "You have been aiding us in your own ways; you have done so under adversity, without encouragement, and of your own freewill. We have not shown you any welcome in Iacon, and many of us still show you outright hostility, yet you persevere. Throughout this meeting, you have been asking for our trust, though I doubt you would admit it. I think to begin to build trust, we must start with a little faith. There will be no need for Prowl or anyone else to interface with you; I believe you when you say you had nothing to do with the attack on Prowl's team."

Several outraged demands of Optimus Prime's designation rang throughout the room. Jazz remained seated, strangely a little dazed. He didn't know what to make of the Prime's statement. He didn't know what to make of himself for not being completely and utterly disgusted that he had an Autobot's trust. The _Prime's _trust!

In the end, he leaned back and said, "Good. Finally someone with some sense around here."

"If I may?" Blackhawk interjected, inclining his head toward the Prime. When a nod came his way, he continued. "If we are extending a hand of trust to Jazz, I believe we should make a better stance of it than a mere nod in his direction. He should be made an official consultant for the Autobots."

An instant tide of noise arose in objection, only to be quelled by a gesture from Prime.

"Continue," Prime invited, his interest evident.

Blackhawk nodded, turning his mismatched optics on Jazz. He had a shrewd stare. Intelligent, yet unreadable. Perfect for Special Operations. "I'm not saying that you should become an Autobot, but if you would become a consultant for us, it would allow you greater freedom within Iacon than you have seen previously. You would not be under Prowl's constant care, nor would you be required to submit to treatment normally reserved for prisoners." He sent a quick, pointed stare toward Ironhide before returning to Jazz. "I, for one, would be interested in working closely with you to improve my own division's effectiveness. You could be an amazing asset to us, not just for your talents and knowledge, but simply as the bot you are. I am not adverse to risking a little to gain the benefits of what could come of such a cooperation."

"I second this motion. Blackhawk is right; if we want to gain anything, we must first risk a little. Jazz is a risk I am willing to take," Elita suddenly announced, her optics glittering with untold calculations. She was dangerous, like Chromia, but in a far different way.

Jazz was beginning to get a sinking feeling. Did he like where this was going? How had everything spiralled so far out of his control?

"I want to see where this goes," Ultra Magnus rumbled amusedly, speaking for the first time. "You have my vote."

A brief flash of light, and then, "Oh, why not? My vote's in- he can't do anymore damage to Iacon than I've already done," Wheeljack said.

"Mine too," Blaster sighed, resigned. "He's an aft, but he keeps things interesting."

Optimus appraised his commanders for a long moment before saying, "We can assume Prowl's favour, and you have my vote, which makes this majority favour-." As could be expected, those who were not in majority favour rose to voice their loud opinions against the matter. Optimus ignored them, his attention given to Jazz. "How about it? You wanted our trust, now you have it; are you ready to take the next step?"

The next step?

Jazz had gone from coming online this morning with the world in the palm of his hand to deciding to murder every bot in Iacon slowly and painfully, to wanting their Primus-damned trust, to getting their Primus-damned trust, and now he didn't know what to do with it. The only thing he had going for him was that Prime was leaving it up to him to accept or decline an offer he never thought he'd ever been considering in the first place.

And he _was_ considering it. Seriously considering being their consultant instead of just a floater.

Jazz met several of the stares boring through him. Optimus Prime was predictably neutral, as was Ultra Magnus. Wheeljack was as open as a window, transparently interested, though nervous. Elita proved difficult to read, though her smile put him on edge. Blackhawk was calculating, whereas Blaster was resigned, bored, and darkly amused all at the same time. Perceptor was still taking his measure, and Ratchet was looking him over with a new degree of suspicion laced with curiosity.

...And then there was Ironhide and Mirage, two glares full of undisguised hostility that practically tickled Jazz inside. Could they make their dislike for him any more obvious? Any more entertaining?

That cinched it for him.

If he wasn't going to be their consultant because most of them _wanted_ his talents, then he'd do it because those two thoroughly and irrevocably _hated_ him.

There were always worse reasons for doing something.

Besides, it gave him a better reason fro sticking around to torment Prowl... and make good on his promise to help the fragger.

Jazz met the Prime's gaze evenly. "Fine, ya have yourself a deal. Ah'll be your... _consultant_."


	12. Chapter 12

A short and sweet little shout out this chapter- why deprive of the story any longer than need be? My sincerest thanks to:** Uniasus, Renegadewriter8, Boredtech, MarineLife37, Gatekat, TylaraRemember, Fiera Sabre, JenEvan, PrancingTiger86, KamiOkagi666, flamingmarsh, phoebe turner, FunkyFish1991, KaiChan1994, Mirage Shinkiro, RedStarBloom, PeaceWish, Eerie Iri, Bluebird Soaring, FoghornLeghorn83, Sergeant Duck, Chloo, chaitea16, **and** Lecidre! **You are all stunning people! There are no words for me to express how grateful I am for your thoughts, enthusiasm, and love for this story! You all truly do inspire me to keep this story going~

So, without further ado, enjoy the chapter!

**Chapter 12**

He ached all over. From the very tips of his chevrons to the points of his feet, he ached. The kind of ache that went deeper than what his neural circuits could feel. Deeper than just his pressure sensor grid. His spark ached. It throbbed. It burned. It was a hurt he no longer had the option of turning off, nor was there any drug to cure a spark wounded deeper than just the physical.

He was being a wretch.

He should be grateful that he was not the worst off. He should be thanking his lucky stars he wasn't dead or once again made the Decepticons' prisoner. Instead, Prowl stood before the glowing cylinder of an occupied cryogenic regeneration chamber and all he could do was hurt, regret, and suffer under guilt. He stared up into a dark faceplate that was not peaceful even in unconsciousness; the longer he stared, the more guilt ate at him like a virulent rust.

Every gouge, every ripped-off slate of armour, every missing limb; it was all Prowl's fault. He did this. He'd mutilated his team. In his arrogance. In his faith in his own abilities. In his foolish belief that having Jazz would give them an edge. His stupidity had blinded him and the mistake had cost them all dearly.

He'd killed two of his own Autobots. Everyone else injured, teetering on the edge.

So much emotion was bubbling up now. Twisted, dark, churning emotion that burned like a bitter acid. He felt like purging again, as if he hadn't been doing so all orn. Even that shamed him; it was evidence of his weakness. His shortcomings. All the reasons he should not have been made the head tactical adviser. Smokescreen should have gotten the position- he had been elected at the same time as Prowl, had all the qualifications, and lacked Prowl's obvious failure with emotional comprehensiveness. Smokescreen's only major flaw was his gambling addiction, which did nothing but impair his ability to hold on to his rations for longer than it took to lose them in a bad gamble.

Prowl laid his hand to the cool crystalline containment unit housing his fellow team mate. He watched as the bot simply floated there, immersed in softly glowing energon. Like he was free, but not quite. The energy levels of the liquid were low, probably only medical-grade energon- C-class or D-class, so the glow was very dim. Barely enough to cast a shadow. Deceptively calming. All together haunting.

"I am sorry," he sighed quietly, the same thing he had been saying all orn when no one else could hear. He was more sorry than he had ever been in his life. It was beginning to become a worrisome pattern with him; whenever he was to make a mistake, it generally ended up being a huge one. He and others ended up getting hurt. Some died.

The only proper resolution was to strive to make no more mistakes, which was a statistically impossible goal to have.

So, in the end, he was caught between a terrible rock and a horribly hard place.

At the end of the quiet ICU, a crystalline door hissed open. Prowl did not have the scanners necessary to identify the spark resonance of his company, so he turned to face them instead. Who he found standing in the doorway did not surprise him. Silhouetted by the stark lights of the main med bay, the new bot struck quite an imposing figure.

"Jazz," murmured the tactician. His spark rolled in his sparkcase again, but this time not from guilt. It was certainly far from pleasure, either. A cold, numb feeling of unease.

As if summoned by the mentioning of his designation, the saboteur eased forward. He came like a predator, silently prowling down the aisle. It was not even an intentional stalking, but one born of natural predatory inclination and grace. Even his footfalls were silent.

Seeing the saboteur so soon... Prowl could not name the emotion he felt concerning the encounter. Trepidation? Frustration? Anxiousness? What was one supposed to feel when faced with the bot who held in his possession the means to destroying everything Prowl had worked so hard to achieve? It certainly should not have been some measure of misplaced relief to find that Jazz had not been executed. His unease to be alone and vulnerable in Jazz's company warred against such meaningless relief.

Not even a breem in the bot's company and already Prowl was already at odds with himself. Jazz seemed to have a habit of bringing that out in the tactician.

As Jazz came to a halt, he leaned against a berth and canted his head. Prowl noted with some interest that the saboteur now sported an interesting assortment of bejewelled magnetic adornments hanging from his horns. The jewellery most certainly was not his, which meant it was most likely stolen. Under the dim lights of the ICU, all of Jazz's frame glittered with the spoils of his thievery. He must have been a very busy mech for the past few joors to have accumulated so much. He managed to make himself look a gaudy ornament and a strange fanciful creature come true- both at the same time.

"Ya don't seem too surprised ta see meh," Jazz intoned, canting his head to the other side. The movement brought about a twinkling sound as his bejewelled magnets rolled against his armour.

"I think, subconsciously, I may have been expecting you," Prowl replied evenly; he may not have known what he would feel upon meeting Jazz again, but he certainly could not deny the inevitability of encountering him.

Instead of huffing over his loss of unpredictability as Prowl would have figured he would, Jazz merely smirked. "Sorry ta have kept ya waitin', then."

"Think nothing of it," Prowl replied uneasily, still so unsure of what to make of this encounter. He watched Jazz carefully, raking his form for any little sign of the saboteur's intent, and found nothing. Shouldn't there be some sign of irritation from his earlier treatment? Was Jazz here to take his frustrations out on Prowl while he was unable to defend himself?

Much to Prowl's displeasure, Jazz picked up on his uneasiness and reacted to it. "Ah see that look on your faceplate, half-bit. It's the look ya get when you're tryin' ta figure somethin' out that don't have no logical answer. What is it this time?"

For a moment, Prowl was thrown for a loop. "How do you know what I look like when I am trying to solve something with no logical answer?"

Jazz shrugged. "Any time ya try ta reason out why Ah do what Ah do, ya get that look."

Prowl made note to try to better conceal his expressions in the future, and then considered what he had been originally asked. Warily, he said, "I do not understand why you are here, Jazz." When he realized such a vague statement could be misconstrued as asking why Jazz was on base, on Cybertron, or even on this plain of existence, and thus would probably be given an inane or insane answer, Prowl better quantified the question: "Why are you here with me, right now, in this ICU?"

Although Jazz's visor was down, Prowl could practically sense the moment when both the saboteur's optic ridges arched. "Can't ya guess?"

"I am in no mood to guess your mood," Prowl growled.

"Now, ain't that funny? Ah would'a thought that with your emotional centre turned on an' all, you'd have no problem understandin' moods now," Jazz drawled unnecessarily loudly.

Prowl cringed, his gaze instantly sweeping the ICU and med bay for any stray bot who might have been eavesdropping When no witnesses turned up, he directed a hard glare in Jazz's direction. "Yes, we both know my emotional centre is on. Thank you for announcing that as loudly as you did. I am sure in your mind it was completely necessary."

"Oh, it was," Jazz replied merrily. "Ah kinda like the little tingly feelin' Ah get when Ah know Ah own ya and there's nothin' ya can do about it- short of socially sacrificing your status and dignity before Ah have a chance ta do it for ya, of course." His grin was diamond-sharp.

Prowl's fists clenched of their own volition. _"Of course."_

Jazz's grin turned teasing. "You're a little moody, now aren't ya? All those emotions gettin' ya down, Prowler?"

Due to his physical state, it took a little more effort than usual to suppress his irrational need to grab Jazz by the horns and slam his head into the nearest wall. "You are annoying me, and that is the extent of the emotions I feel right now. I don't understand what you are doing here, but the longer you stay the greater I will be tempted to summon Ratchet to remove you."

"And wouldn't that make mah orn so much better? Didn't Ah get enough of him and ol' Hide this mornin'?" Jazz drawled mock-pleasantly. "Ah dare ya ta get Ratch' in here. Ah'd hate ta let somethin' _slip_ while Ah was being removed."

Prowl went rigid, optics flashing. "You would, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, Ah would." Jazz laughed as if it were a mere game, not playing with the very foundation of someone's life. "Ah'm not afraid ta."

"So that's your game? You wish to keep me under your thumb for as long as possible? Until I _snap_?" Prowl recoiled from the very thought.

"Something like that," the saboteur shrugged.

"It won't work; I will find some way to stop you." Pride be damned, Prowl would appeal to the Prime before he would allow himself to be ruled by a creature such as Jazz for the rest of his life, however long that happened to be. To be attached in any way, shape, or form to someone so... so... _frustrating_! So _illogical_! It was sure to be a fate worse than any other.

"Ah'll enjoy every moment of your efforts ta stop meh," Jazz teased, but his gaze turned shrewd. "'Course, if ya ever got control of your emotions like a good little bot, Ah'd have nothin' ta hang over your head with."

"If you haven't forgotten, you were the one who originally proposed to help me with my... dilemma. I see your need for some misplaced need to control and dominate me supersedes that offer," Prowl spat.

Jazz was quiet for a moment, and then inclined his head thoughtfully. "Who said Ah didn't still intend ta help ya?"

"I beg your pardon?" Surprise barrelled through Prowl, his processor scrambling to recalculate the situation. He could not hide irritation from his voice as he asked- "Why in the pit are you here tormenting me if you still intend to help me? What sense does that make?" He threw his hands up. "At least the idea of revenge for this morning's fiasco made some form of twisted sense!"

Jazz kicked away from the berth he had been leaning against, his lithe frame suddenly tense. "Ya thought Ah was teasin' ya out of _spite?_" He sounded... offended?

"Well, yes, of course! What else was I to think?" Prowl exclaimed.

Jazz's arms flew up in a mirror of Prowl's own gesture of frustration. "Ah hate ta break it ta ya, Prowler, but Ah'm just messin' with ya because it's _fun. _It's what Ah've always done, haven't Ah?" He spoke true- for once; it was their custom to share personal barbs with each other. Prowl _should_ have remembered. Without a single misstep, Jazz laid out the problem with a disgruntled huff: "Ya obviously still need ta adjust ta that emotional centre of yours, 'cause ya sure ain't seein' things straight right now."

Prowl blinked, caught off-guard to be called out so easily. "The first orn or two are the most difficult becoming reacquainted with my emotions. I... am not thinking as clearly as I normally would." He paused, and then added, "It will pass."

"Good," Jazz grunted mulishly. "An' for the record, me being here don't have nothin' ta do with anyone or anything else; Ah wanted ta be here because you're here. It's as simple as that."

Prowl's gaze shot wide, optic ridges arched. "Because I'm here?"

He could see Jazz's surprise over his own admittance. Apparently he had not intended to let so much slip. Annoyance darkened Jazz's features as he looked away, staunchly avoiding Prowl's gaze.

"Ah own ya, don't Ah?" Jazz said lowly. He then sighed, slowing turning back to meet Prowl's still-astonished gaze. "Just... forget about it. Ah meant what Ah said last night; Ah'll help ya get control, Prowler." His mouthplates pressed into a thin line, as if he were struggling with what to say next. Finally the words came- "It's not gonna be easy, and it's probably gonna hurt like pit, but it'll be worth it in the end." Then he snorted. "Then again, Ah could be lying; this might all be some elaborate trap."

Prowl frowned, curious of Jazz's tone. Nonetheless, he said, "I suppose I can expect nothing less of you."

Jazz laughed softly, but it came out as a self-deprecating sound. "Yep, guess ya can expect nothing less. Ya don't get much worse than meh."

Perhaps it was just energy-deprivation or he was suffering a severe malfunction, but for a curious moment, it seemed to Prowl as if Jazz wished that something _more_ could be expected of him. Even his guarded expression appeared vaguely wistful. In just that split astrosecond, Prowl got the distinct impression that plenty before him had expected much of Jazz's abilities, but very few had ever expected much of Jazz the mech. Had anyone ever respected him without fear or held a positive opinion of him?

Was Jazz suddenly interested in having others know the mech he was instead of fearing the monster he likened to be?

It was an interesting prospect.

The epiphany also served Prowl another dash of guilt to go on top of the mountain he was already suffering. Jazz sought some sort of trust or respect, and all Prowl could summon at the moment was wariness and suspicion. He claimed to believe the saboteur when he had exclaimed his innocence the previous night, yet still Prowl treated him as guilty. The tactician was in the wrong and he knew it; Jazz may not have been completely in the right, but he was currently standing in a light enough shade of grey to deserve something more than the treatment he had been getting.

Fixing a steady gaze on the saboteur, he outright asked, "Are you looking for trust, Jazz?"

Jazz jerked straight, caught off guard by the sudden enquiry. His visor darkened and he drew away a fraction. "Ah wouldn't know what ta do with it."

Prowl canted his head. "Has anyone ever trusted you?"

"Not anyone smart," the silver mech snorted.

"I can't imagine the life you must have led."

"Not many bots can." Jazz shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable. "Sometimes Ah don't even know how Ah survived it." That life seemed to far away now. A whole other lifetime ago. He was a different bot now- he was smart enough to admit that fact now; not completely changed, but definitely not the same.

A strange feeling of sympathy suddenly overrode Prowl's sense of irritation with the mech. He didn't want to feel it, but he couldn't exactly shut it off, either. Blaming what he was about to do entirely on his current condition and any apparent delirium he might be suffering from, Prowl took a leap of faith. He held out his hand. "Help me to a berth?"

Jazz stared at the offered hand as if he was waiting for it to do a trick.

"Please?" Prowl insisted dryly. "My power reserves are running dry. I would rather not fall and be subject to the humiliation of being forced to call for help."

With wariness written in every line of his frame, Jazz prowled forward. Surprising them both, he was gentle in taking Prowl's hand and winding it around his shoulders, allowing Prowl to rest his weight against him. The walk to an empty berth was not a long one- a few short steps. Prowl dragged himself up, sat down, and then met Jazz's gaze.

"Thank you."

"Ya could'a walked here on your own," said the saboteur. "You're not that bad off."

Storm-grey shoulders rose in a mild shrug. "It was an experiment; I gave you my trust to help me, and you seemed to know what to do with it just fine," Prowl said, watching as his companion's visor flashed bright for a moment. "It's a start, isn't it?"

Jazz eased away until a good distance stretched between them. "Ah'd rather respect. Ah know what ta do with respect."

Prowl smirked shallowly. "You have always had my respect, Jazz, even when I did not trust you." He laid back on his berth, vulnerable but in desperate need of rest.

Jazz appeared stunned with such an admittance.

Deciding that it was best to let the Neutral ruminate on the subject, Prowl turned the conversation to another point of interest. "Forgive me for the sudden change, but what _did_ happen this morning after you were carted off? I spoke with Ratchet earlier and he refused to speak of the matter."

Jazz suddenly laughed- a new sound that was neither bitter, sharp, nor self-deprecating. He sounded genuinely amused. Apparently he was not at all adverse to changing the subject. "Ah don't imagine Ratch' would be too inclined ta talkin' about it, no. The whole meetin' didn't exactly go his way, after all."

Prowl levered up carefully on his berth, gingerly turning to one side to better see his company. "Elaborate?"

"Ah might have maybe been made a consultant for your faction," Jazz drawled vaguely, silver shoulders tilting in a lopsided shrug.

There was a disbelieving pause, and then the tactician asked, "No, seriously- what happened?"

Jazz coughed uncomfortably. "Ah was being serious."

"...oh." It was Prowl's turn to be stunned. Very, very stunned. He had not expected such a gesture from the Autobots for a long time to come. "Um, not to be rude, but how exactly did something like that happen?"

"Ah'm still tryin' ta figure that one out," the silver mech said with a disbelieving shake of his head. "Ah think it had something ta do with stickin' around ta torment some bots, or some slag like that..."

Prowl arched an optic ridge. "I highly doubt that was the reasoning behind your promotion."

"Okay, so that was probably _mah_ reasoning," Jazz smirked. "Ya might want ta ask Blackhawk what the real reasonin' was. He suggested it in the first place."

"Blackhawk? He's an unusual mech," Prowl murmured. "Normally, he's very self-contained."

"He must'a taken a likin' ta meh, then."

Whatever the reason, Prowl made a mental note to speak with the Special Ops commander. He fixed Jazz with a shrewd look. "To agree to be our consultant... you realize that that does entail a certain amount of trust, yes?"

"Ah kinda picked up on that, yeah."

"Weren't you just lamenting the fact that you have no idea what to do with trust?"

"Kinda realized that, too." Jazz scratched the back of his head. "Therein lies a bit of the problem, see?"

"I suppose if you are to be helping me with my issues, I can try to help you with yours. No guarantees, though; I'm not the most qualified, if you haven't noticed."

"No, Ah haven't noticed at all," Jazz drawled sarcastically, but then shrugged neutrally. "You're better than nothin', Ah suppose."

"I choose to take that as a compliment." An almost-smile came to Prowl's mouthplates. "You will never cease to confuse me, Jazz. Your reasoning behind things- _astonishing_."

"Right now, Ah'm kinda confusin' mahself," Jazz admitted haplessly. He slanted Prowl a pensive look. "What Ah do know is that agreeing ta all this slag gave meh a legitimate reason ta stick around. No more worrying about having to sneak into everyone's rooms in the dead of night and reprogramming them while they recharge, right?"

Before Prowl could point out that he hadn't realized that had been option, the door to the distant med bay hissed open. It was a soft sound, but with the ICU so quiet even a dropped pin could be heard. From the hall and through the bay came a cacophony of thundering footsteps. A familiar slim form marched into sight, flashing like lightning beneath the stark lights. The door to the ICU shot open, admitting the furious form of Master Spy Mirage. Every line of the mech's frame was taut. He looked ready to explode.

"Where is he, Prowl?" demanded the ice-painted mech, his glacial attitude replaced with a blazing fury.

"Who?" Prowl wondered, casting a cursory glance around the ICU. Jazz was gone, as if he had never been there.

The Master Spy waved a violent gesture. "You know exactly who! That wretched Decepticon scrap heap you keep as a pet!"

Surprise melted off Prowl's features, instantly hardening into a cold mask. He forced himself to sit up despite his desperately objecting frame. "There is no one here that fits that description."

Mirage stormed down the central aisle until he was able to loom over Prowl's berth. "I know you know where he is! You always know! Don't you dare lie to me! That wretch ransacked my room and stole all of my possessions! Tell me where he is this instant!"

Prowl did not budge. He did, however, suddenly understand where and from who Jazz's jewellery came from. Maybe it was a malfunction, but he had no desire to see the jewellery returned at the moment. "Even if I did know where he was, I wouldn't be inclined to tell you while you're in this kind of violent mood. It does you a discredit to be so out of control."

"I have good reason to be_ so out of control_!" Mirage snarled."That reason happens to be your pet Decepticon!"

Prowl scowled. "I have no interest in your reasoning. Go calm yourself down before coming to me again; if you haven't noticed, I'm injured and would like to rest. Leave me until morning. Chase whomever you want, but don't involve me in your problems."

Mirage's optics narrowed dangerously, his violent temper compressing into that of a burning laser point zeroed in on Prowl. "You're on his side, aren't you? One foolish night together and you've lost your mind?" His gaze narrowed even more, a sneer marring his mouthplates. "Or has it been more than one night? Is he that good that you'd turn your back on your own faction? Primus, Prowl, what is wrong with you? That _thing_ is a Decepticon with no conscience!"

Heat bloomed throughout Prowl's frame, embarrassment and anger. "What Jazz and I do in our own time is none of your business." He glared hotly- not to the same level of temper Mirage suffered, but certainly getting there. "But to clear you of your blatant misconception, he and I have never been intimate nor do we ever have any intention of being so. I have no intention of turning away from the Autobots, either. That being said, I have no intention of feeding your petty tantrum at the moment." He tilted his chin up a fraction higher. "Right now, I am under the distinct impression that whatever Jazz did to you, you were fully deserving of it."

Mirage looked as if he had been slapped.

Was it right for Prowl to feel a certain amount of satisfaction?

The Master Spy snapped out of his daze quickly, his foul mood returning in earnest. "When I find that mech, he'll be on a one way trip to the brig- if he even makes it that far. It was a mistake to even keep him here. The sooner we get rid of him, the better." He began to stalk away, frame bristling, vents heaving.

Prowl narrowed a glare at the retreating mech's back. "Seeing as he works for us now, starting something with him might just land you in a cell right next to him in the brig."

"We'll see about that." Mirage was gone in a flash of ice-cold paint and red-hot temper.

Prowl glared after the Master Spy, growling softly. He had no concern for Jazz's future safety, knowing full well Jazz could turn a mech like Mirage inside out if the mood struck him.

Once the coast was clear, the saboteur slithered down from his hidden perch in the shadowed alcoves above the CR chambers. He came to the floor with a light tap, brushing himself off. Prowl watched the scene with what he hoped was neutral interest, when- in truth- he was still feeling extremely riled by the encounter. Jazz did not appear at all flustered by the accusations or degrading names thrown his way. He looked as neutral as Prowl struggled to appear.

"I suppose I don't have to wonder what you've been up to all orn," the tactician commented.

Jazz took extra care to flaunt his glittering prizes. "Like ya said, he deserved it."

"I have no doubt that he did." Prowl cycled a cool drag of air, gradually calming down. Who would have thought he'd get so worked up in the defence of a 'wretched Decepticon scrap heap'? He shot Jazz a measuring look. "If he comes back, I won't hide you again."

"Ah'm not afraid of him, but thanks for hidin' meh in the first place. Appreciate it. Kinda wasn't prepared for a fight." He rolled his sleek silver shoulders, slipping to the berth next to Prowl and propping his hip against it. His grin was dangerously wide. "Ah don't think he'll be comin' back any time soon, though."

Prowl briefly reviewed the mood Mirage left in and had to concur.

Jazz inclined his head to the berth he leaned against. "Mind if Ah stay here tonight? Ah'm thinkin' this is the safest place for meh right now."

"Make yourself at home," Prowl invited wryly. "But please, don't get used it."

"What, the med bay?" Jazz laughed. "Not plannin' on it."

"No, staying with me like this," Prowl informed with a curious twist of his mouthplates. "We wouldn't want to give others the wrong impression."

Jazz laughed again, another rich, handsome sound that filled the ICU. "Don't worry- Ah think they already have the wrong impression."


	13. Chapter 13

This chapter is probably one of the hardest chapters I have ever had to write for this story. I've been brewing on it for weeks now. Months. I wanted to get everything just right. It's been written and rewritten. Tweaked and fiddled and changed and adjusted. The whole project nearly drove me insane! But finally, _finally_, the chapter is finished. I've never been so relieved in my life. *sighs in relief*

To all of my reviewers who have been so kind in showing their love for this story, this chapter is totally for you! I mean it- you guys are my inspiration, my reason for continuing, my reminder that this story is just sitting here, begging to be written for. My greatest thanks to **Kai-Chan94, BoredTech, FoghornLeghorn83, Gatekat, , Fiera Sabre, PrancingTiger86, phoebe turner, Sergeant Duck, Christina, Lecidre, renegadewriter8, CNightJoy, Optimus Bob, Gimme-Chan, JenEvan, lastditch, curse-of-the-cat, Vivienne Grainger, DramaStar-Mel, Bluebird Soaring, Faecat, lady tecuma, Peacewish, Eerie Iri, starrose25, chloo, Geiera, Muffing, Shizuka Taiyou, chaitea16, Anasazi Darkmoon**, and **Swedish Dragon**. You all are too kind~

I hope you all enjoy! Review to spread the love~ ^_^

**Chapter 13**

Jazz lounged to his own content on the long bench set up on the outskirts of the training range. He lay fully across the whole surface, one leg bent at the knee while the other dangled over the edge, swinging back and forth nonchalantly. Crossing his arms behind his head, he shifted around until he was comfortable. Prowl, he knew, would never dare be late for anything in his life, so he wouldn't have long to wait. A few breems, at most.

Waiting for Prowl to heal completely had not been an easy thing. Time did not pass as quickly as it did when Jazz was having fun tormenting his tactician. As a matter of fact, time apparently liked to slow down to the point that it felt like it was going backwards whenever Jazz found himself in the presence of someone other than Prowl, a condition that had happened more often than not as the mech recovered. There were very few available bots who measured up to the same intellectual standard- not that Jazz was much surprised by that reality. That's the way it had always been, with everyone around him always being slower, less interesting, and never very entertaining; only now, the condition was becoming irritating.

Not to mention trying to fit into his new function as the Autobot's consultant was very much like trying to wear armour built for someone else. It didn't suit him at all. It didn't _fit_. He wasn't about to admit defeat, and he refused to fail at anything, but damn if trying to be someone he was not didn't bother the slag out of him.

As Jazz pondered his current circumstances, he was forced to admit a small consolation for the arrangements- being that _everyone_ was uncomfortable with his new position of power. Even the ones who had voted for him were a tiny bit antsy, with the exception of Blackhawk, who remained _odd_ in Jazz's opinion. As far as Jazz was concerned, he hadn't been given much reason to like the Autobots, nor was he inclined to try liking them under any circumstances, and the same could be said for their opinions of him. Mirage, by far, was the most vocal about his opinions.

His reprieves from the bombardment of idiocy, annoyance, dislike, distrust, and irritation were far and few between. Sparring with the twins helped wean off the itch of excess energy that constantly crawled beneath his armour. Using Firestar for her ex-pleasure bot talents scratched an itch of a different kind. Unfortunately, Ratchet had barred him from his fondest outlet; Prowl, according to the medic, needed rest in order to heal. Also according to the medic, any visit with Jazz, no matter how brief, was _not_ a restful thing.

So Jazz had been restricted to breaking into the med bay in the dark of night in order to steal an illicit joor or two with Prowl. Not that they did much. Sometimes Prowl recharged and Jazz sat there, using the time to think. Other times, Prowl was online and they talked about things that didn't mean much. Somehow, that was enough.

Thankfully, the inconvenience (and secret enjoyment) of seeking Prowl out in the middle of the night in order to have intelligent company with competent mental capabilities had finally come to an end. Ratchet had deemed Prowl fit for light duty, releasing to his own quarters and allowing him back into the main populace of Iacon. And that left Jazz free to live up to the promise he had made to the mech to help him with his little problem- a promise he was currently in the process of making good on.

Nearby, the door to the range hissed open.

Jazz cracked open an optic, smirking. "Right on time," he called just as the storm-grey tactician came into view.

"There is no sense in being late," Prowl replied, exempting a real greeting.

Jazz smirked. "Are ya sayin' being late is only for the senseless?"

"You would know," Prowl said, almost teasing. He cast his gaze around the training range, and then noted Jazz's pose on the bench. It wasn't a deliberate pose, but certainly one that showcased the saboteur's handsome frame. Prowl cocked an optic ridge at the mech. "I hope you don't mean this as some misguided seduction, because I can think of at least ten other locations much more suited for the task."

Jazz laughed, swinging around to sit up and then popped to his feet in one graceful movement. "If Ah was seducing ya, you'd already be mine," he said with utmost confidence. "But good ta know where your thoughts are. Ah'll keep it in mind for future reference."

"That was _not_ an invitation," Prowl informed, though his mouthplates hinted at that rare almost-smile he sometimes wore.

Jazz put a hand to his spark as if hurt. "Aw, now ya just had ta go an' disappoint meh."

"I am sure you'll get over it," replied the tactician.

"Ah don't know- you're an awfully hard mech ta forget," Jazz laughed, and it was the same handsome sound Prowl had heard in the med bay several nights prior. Jazz laughed a lot more often like that, even if he didn't mean to.

"I could say the same of you," Prowl said. He said it in such a way that Jazz couldn't decide if the mech trying to be humorous or merely pointing out a fact. The tactician turned away before Jazz could choose which option he liked better. With a nonchalant air, Prowl examined every detail of the cavernous room they were in- one of the largest rooms available in Iacon, as large as a stadium though it was far more plain in comparison. Nothing appeared out of place. No equipment was set up. None of the holographic projectors were on.

Standing well behind the tactician, Jazz enjoyed a moment of watching the Autobot's back as he tried to figure out what was happening. The saboteur could almost feel the intensity with which the tactician was thinking. The metal wings jutting from Prowl's back twitched, a comical contrast to the tactician's normally stoic demeanour.

Sensing Jazz's attention, Prowl turned over his shoulder. "What do you have planned for this session?"

"If Ah told ya, that would ruin the surprise," Jazz admonished, wagging a finger.

"When it comes to you, I find it best to avoid all surprises when possible," Prowl said.

"Flatterer," Jazz teased. He glided over to the control panel and connected to it via his interface cable. He downloaded the program he had been working on for the last couple of orns. In astroseconds, the holographic projectors hummed to life. A grid of light fell across the room, and then everything became a basic whitewash. From that, the intended images took shape.

The room that formed was a spacious octagon, larger than an average room, though smaller than the training range itself. There was a raised dais in the middle thickly padded with hard mats; plenty of room lay between the dais and the towering walls surrounding it. Enough room for a small audience, or for bots to carry out their exercises without fear of knocking into the mats or walls. The walls themselves were composed of black and copper panels, each polished to mirror-like perfection. Ancient scrawling symbols curled their way through the metal; Prowl would not be able to read the writing, but Jazz could. A high ceiling above plated in polished copper drew up into a sharp peak; a skylight of specially cut crystal began halfway up the cone, letting in shattered holographic sunlight, leaving the room well lit.

Weapons of various shapes and sizes hung on display. Colourful banners proclaiming tournament victories fluttered gently in the programmed breeze drifting through the room. Had holograms been capable of reproducing scent, Jazz would have programmed in the unusual scent that had always clung to everything- a sweetness that was both omnipresent and haunting. Sometimes the room _stank_ of it.

Once the hologram finished loading, a room of austere power came into focus.

"Know the place?" Jazz asked as he disconnected from the control panel. He came to Prowl's side, allowing the hologram to complete the eighth wall behind him, hiding the last vestige of the Autobot training room they were standing in.

Prowl peered around at his surroundings in careful scrutiny. "I know this is a dojo, but not which specific one. It is unlike the one I trained under Yokétron in."

The saboteur nodded. "This is where Ah trained, actually."

Prowl's surprise was visible before he hid it behind his usual neutral façade. "It is a very nice dojo. You must have been very fortunate to train here."

A hard, bitter smirk curved Jazz's mouthplates. "Yeah, Ah was _real _fortunate." He let that comment hang in the air for a moment, knowing that Prowl would not enquire further. Cycling air through his vents, he then gestured to the padded dais. "Might as well start; get up in there."

"I thought you were going to teach me to control my emotions, not spar with me," said the tactician, leaning back instead of moving forward. "I am not averse to expanding my circuit-su training, but not now."

"The room's for inspiration, not sparring," Jazz informed, walking over and gracefully leaping up. He turned and stared down at his would-be student, visor retracted. "Ya want mah help or what?"

Prowl pursed his mouthplates, quickly following the saboteur up. "Why are there no ropes around the ring?"

Jazz shrugged. "Xerxia, mah master- she believed that if ya made a mistake, ya should pay for it." He gestured vaguely in the air. "If ya fragged up in the ring, ya deserved ta get thrown ta the floor."

Prowl frowned. "One should be able to learn from their mistakes, not be punished for them."

"Yeah, well, ya learnt real quick around here or else_._" Jazz circled around the edges of the mats. His head tingled as he recalled how many times he'd been dropped on it as a youngling. He could almost imagine Xerxia breezing in, calling for him to begin another 'lesson'. A brief feeling of nausea passed through him. His unintended distraction was enough for Prowl to notice it.

"Are you all right?" wondered the tactician.

Jazz snapped out of his reverie, disgusted with himself to be affected at all. "Ah'm fine." He pointed to the centre of the ring. "Sit there."

This time, Prowl did not question him; he stepped into the center of the ring and sat down, correctly assuming a pose taught to all circuit-su trainees for meditation.

"Huh," Jazz said, staring for a short bit.

Prowl looked up, blinking curiously. "Is this not what you wanted?"

"It is, Ah just… wasn't expectin'ya ta do it so easily." Without saying anything more, Jazz walked over, slid to the mats, and mirrored Prowl's pose.

"Have you ever done this with anyone else before?" Prowl suddenly asked. "Trained them, I mean."

"Ah've always been a bit of a loner," Jazz shrugged. "Never really thought of helpin' anyone before; never seemed worth it, ya know? Besides, Ah've never been in the frame of mind ta be able ta help anyone before."

"True," Prowl agreed. "Until recently, you were delusional and dangerously unstable."

Jazz paused, frowned, and then nodded.

Prowl's hand moved, almost as if he meant to reach out to pat Jazz's, but he jerked to a halt before he moved far. "I said you _were_ delusional, Jazz- past tense. You're not who you used to be."

"Ah know," Jazz murmured, and he almost pointed out that it was because of Prowl. A much larger part of himself still rebelled against admitting such a thing. He met Prowl's gaze in the brief silence that fell between them, and Jazz was suddenly aware that he did not need to say anything to Prowl over the matter- he was already perfectly aware of it.

They blinked and looked away, refusing to say anything to each other in case it spurred them to say something that they could never take back.

"So," Prowl suddenly intoned after he decided the silence had stretched on long enough. "How do you plan to help me?"

"Ah was thinkin' of tryin' ta teach ya ta control your emotions the same way Ah was taught," Jazz admitted. "Just go through the same training methods, things like that. Ya obviously didn't get ta complete your training or else ya wouldn't be havin' these kinds of problems, Ah wouldn't think. Ah'll probably throw in a couple of mah techniques Ah learned from… around."

Whether 'around' meant he'd raped the information from bots' minds or if he'd simply developed them from life experience, he didn't say. Prowl knew better than to ask. Instead, he decided to ask another question- which he felt was rather important to ask for the sake of his own mental wellbeing.

"By any chance, was your training in any way related to your previous insanity?"

Jazz arched both of his optic ridges. "It wasn't circuit-su that turned meh insane," he stated flatly.

"That's a relief," Prowl intoned, letting his shoulders relax.

"It was mah master who turned meh into a monster," Jazz concluded matter-of-factly.

Prowl stared, trying to determine if the saboteur was joking or not. It only took a moment to ascertain the answer by the look on the saboteur's faceplate. Jazz wasn't joking. Prowl frowned deeply. "That's not exactly reassuring."

The saboteur shrugged unconcernedly. "Not mah fault if ya can't handle the truth. Ya still have time ta back out if ya think ya can't handle it."

Of course, Prowl weighed his options. Jazz watched with sharp attention as light shifted behind the tactician's optics, indicative of his logic circuits running. It took all but a moment, but it was a moment in which Jazz did not know the outcome, and it still bothered him to fall short.

Prowl met his gaze and inclined his head. "The benefits outweigh the risks," the mech announced. "I have no doubt that if I begin to display unusual behavioural deviances, Ratchet will call me on it. In which case, our sessions will end and I will request a reprogramming to remove me of whatever I have learnt here."

"Fair enough," Jazz shrugged. "Shall we begin?"

"Of course."

"We're not gonna do much today. Ah just wanna ask a few things ta see what Ah'm workin' with. Ah have a basic idea, but who really knows what's really going on in that messed up head of yours?"

"_Messed up?"_ Prowl repeated, looking mildly indignant.

"Ya got a better word ta call it?"

Prowl clamped his mouthplates together mulishly, remaining silent.

"See? You're messed up. Acceptin' that is the first step ta fixin' it." Jazz laughed as Prowl looked ready to share a few choice words, but kept silent in case he said something that would change Jazz's mind about the training. Little did the tactician know, Jazz had no intention of changing his mind. They were going through with this so that Prowl wouldn't be weak anymore. He had to be equal to Jazz, or at least as close as he could get, so that when the day came when Jazz defeated him, the victory would be all the more sweeter.

"Let's get started on 'fixing' me, then," Prowl finally blurted, turning his olfactory sensor up.

"Oh, yeah- let's start." He pondered for a moment over how to start. Never, in his entirely too-long life, had he ever asked another living being this question. He might have asked a few dead ones, but in that context, he most likely would have been mocking them. Steeling himself, he asked, "How do you feel?"

Prowl arched his optic ridges, visibly surprised by the question. "Neutral at the moment, perhaps a bit curious of what you plan to do to me, and I would be lying if I did not say I was a bit wary of this training… Why?"

"No, Ah didn't mean…never mind." He sighed, shaking his head. "Ah meant… How do Ah put this? How do you feel, as in… ta what _depth_ do ya feel?"

"How do I describe something like that?"

"Ah don't know…" Jazz sighed. "If ya haven't noticed, Ah'm not real good with talking about mah emotions, either. Ah'm used ta controlling mine and mocking others. Ah've only had ta do _this_ once with Xerxia."

"Only once?" Prowl asked.

"Like Ah said, ya learned quick with her." He remembered what Xerxia had done to get the right answer out of him. She'd waited until he recharged and hacked into his head while he couldn't defend himself. While that was certainly an option available to Jazz, he suddenly had an aversion to doing so, which both bothered and frustrated him. He scrubbed his faceplate with his palm. "This would have been easier if Ah could see inside your head."

"What would you do if you had access?" Prowl asked.

Jazz lowered his hand, locking gazes with the tactician. "Ah'd want ta look at your emotional centre ta see if ya have any anomalies in the structure or programming, maybe check out a few memories of ya turning your emotional centre off and on ta feel what ya feel- to what degrees are ya affected, what emotions are the most problematic for ya. Ah can't help ya properly if Ah don't know what Ah'm dealing with." He shrugged. "That's all Ah had planned for this session, actually."

"That sounds reasonable," Prowl said, and then surprised Jazz by clicking his interface panel open. Prowl, observant mech that he was, did not miss Jazz's brief look of surprise. He actually had the audacity to smirk a little. "Trust, remember?" he said. "I agreed to help you with it. I'll trust you to look inside my head without…" he paused to consider the right term, "_going overboard_." Then his expression turned pensive as he said, "I just realized that in allowing this, I am giving you what you wanted when you first came here. You wished to see what made me tick, and now you finally are."

Jazz's optics flashed with the realization. "Huh…" This should have been a momentous occasion; how many frustrated nights had he spent in Straxis brewing over what would crack Prowl's mental armour? How many times had he wondered what was going on inside the tactician's mind without ever finding an answer? So why wasn't he happier about it? He was finally getting what he wanted, and yet… he didn't really want it. He didn't earn it. How messed up was that? Maybe Jazz needed his head examined now.

"You don't look as triumphant as I would have assumed you would," Prowl observed.

"Let's just get this over with," Jazz murmured. They moved closer to each other so that their knees touched. They retained their original poses, comfortable to stay as such for as long as needed. Jazz flicked open his own panel and withdrew his cable, expertly connecting to Prowl with no further ceremony. They synchronized, and then their minds collided. The actual sensation of connecting to another mind is not something that could be easily described, but it was similar to feeling as if you were falling and flowing at the same time. And while you fell, someone was falling into you.

It was the feeling of the boundaries of one mind suddenly expanding to include the boundaries of another.

Jazz made a quiet murmuring noise, leaning back a bit. He knew what to expect when slipping into Prowl's head. He knew from the brief moments they had shared their minds in Iacon and the long moments when Prowl had been Jazz's prisoner in Straxis. Immediately after gaining access into the inner regions of the tactician's mind, he was assaulted by how bizarrely _ordered_ Prowl's mind was. There was not a sinle piece of mental lint anywhere to be found. It was sealed tight, locked down, and scrubbed clean- like the most foreboding high-security vault that ever existed. There was no other mind on Cybertron like it. But knowing what to expect and actually feeling it were two different things. The latter was so much better.

Prowl's optics flashed as he leaned back, bracing his weight on his palms. He tilted his head back. Occasionally, if he wasn't braced for the transition, sometimes Jazz's mind gave him a headache. Much unlike his mind, Jazz's mind was a complex storm of whirling thoughts, vague images, strange sounds, lingering sweet smells, and electric sensation. The only small consolation to meeting a mind so frenetic, disjointed, and full of perpetual complexity was that Jazz's mind was also conspicuously _clean_. Jazz never had any misfiled information, data errors, dead files, or debris lying around. He was strange, but never sloppy.

Jazz went straight to work, unwilling to waste time. The emotional center was one of the strangest parts of any Cybertronian's mind; it was both a physical structure and an abstract idea. Emotions themselves were curious things- they could be programmed but never taken away. They could be touched, manipulated, changed, but never deleted. Once an emotion was learned, once it was in someone's mind, it was there forever. No one, not even Jazz, could steal it.

Currently, Prowl's emotions were very neutral. He wasn't feeling much of anything at the moment, and Jazz guessed that that was how the mech preferred it.

As Jazz's mind curled around the structure, Prowl shuddered.

"Ah can't believe Ah missed this before," Jazz said, shaking his head as he manipulated the centre. "Ya hid it so well that Ah thought ya were a drone."

"It took everything I had to hide it from you," Prowl murmured quietly. "I dreaded the orn you would find it."

Without mercy, Jazz said, "If Ah had found it, Ah would have driven ya insane with it. It would have been so much fun."

"You would have killed me," Prowl stated. "I couldn't let that happened."

Jazz's respect for the mech went up, and it was accidentally transmitted to Prowl. The tactician almost smiled. Jazz huffed quietly, ignoring it.

He closed his optics and shut out the world as he focused his attention on Prowl's emotional centre. He held it in his mental-hands, turning it over, inspecting the structure from the inside out. It did not appear irregular. There was nothing outstandingly odd about it. There were only two things worth noting, one being that Prowl's emotional variety was unusually limited; he had the basics, like happiness, sorrow, and anger, and a few of the more complex emotions like passion, guilt, and hatred, but not as great a selection as a normal Cybertronian. The second interesting point was that the majority of the emotions that Prowl did have were negative ones.

Guilt. Remorse. Sorrow. Shame. Disgust. Frustration. Rage. Hatred.

Jazz glanced up, meeting Prowl's steady gaze. He didn't bother speaking out loud as he asked, _did you learn all of these from war?_ The transmission was not like a voice one would hear inside their head, nor was it like a text to read; it was the same feeling as thinking a single thought, except that Jazz had been the one to think it and Prowl received it.

_No, _Prowl mentally sighed. _When I functioned in Security Response, I saw many terrible things. _He bowed his head a little. _So many terrible things._

_There are a lot of terrible things one transformer can do to another, _Jazz said- and for a very brief moment, Prowl was given the impression that Jazz had done every single terrible thing possible. He had used bots, abused them, done things to them that there weren't any words for. And he hadn't felt a single drop of guilt for any of it.

"Have you always been a sociopath?" Prowl wondered out loud.

Jazz nearly jumped by the sudden sound of the tactician's voice. It took him a second to process what had been asked. "Oh- no, Ah guess not. Ah was almost normal once, Ah think…a long time ago… Until I came here." He gestured vaguely to the dojo without looking at it. He went back to telepathic communication: _Ya interested in expanding your emotional repertoire?_

Prowl shook his head, his red chevron catching in the light. _I… do not know. I would rather be able to control the emotions I have now before I gain new ones._

_Fair enough. _Jazz mentally backed off, his mind already racing with the information he'd gained. He kept his thoughts hidden behind firewalls so Prowl would not sense them. Already, plans were starting to form. Dozens of them. They were flowing, jumping, weaving, and waving, each calling for Jazz's attention. They called all at once, like a wild storm. And from each plan, he could see whole new worlds unfolding, all the little possibilities, all of the connections and opportunities. He was not like Prowl, who could think logically of a thousand situations and a thousand more countermoves for each situation. Jazz thought in terms of… well, he wasn't quite sure how to describe it. Chaos theory? Domino effects? Butterfly effects?

He gave himself a mental shake, compartmentalizing his thoughts for later. To Prowl, he said- _Shut off your centre for an astrosecond. Ah wanna see what it feels like. _

There was a long moment of uncertain hesitation, and then Prowl did so. What happened in the aftermath was like being sucked into the vacuum of space. Everything became void. No emotion whatsoever. It was very plain, logical_, boring._ Numbing. Cold. So empty that you could almost hear an echo in Prowl's head.

_Ya did that so easily, _Jazz commented.

_I have had a lot of practice, _Prowl replied.

_Turn it back on now_, Jazz commanded. In the next instant, sensation came back. Warmth. Feeling. The centre had not been turned off long enough to have stored up very much of a backlash.

"That wasn't so bad," Jazz remarked, smirking lightly.

Prowl gave him a haunted look.

"Ah know, Ah know, a real backlash is worse. Give meh a memory of it," Jazz said.

Tension tightened every line of Prowl's frame.

Jazz reached out and grasped the tactician's forearm, gripping it tight. "Ah can take, Prowler."

"Just… brace yourself," the tactician warned, grasping Jazz's hand with his free one.

Jazz sat back, cycling air deeply. He took the warning seriously. He felt Prowl's mind moving against his own. A memory was selected, and then transferred through their link. It was a relatively large file, but the time index on it was very short. Jazz cycled air once more. He steadied himself. Let everything else fall away. He accessed the file, opening it.

There were no visuals.

No sounds.

No tastes.

No smells.

Only sensation.

For long astroseconds, all Jazz experienced was a void. He was separate from it and yet experiencing it at the same time. Then came a subtle feeling like the flicking of a switch. He experience a brief moment of feeling like he was standing on the edge of a cliff and leaning over, looking down. His spark jittered. His armour prickled. Cadlm before the storm.

Without warning, it hit him.

The intensity of the emotions were so strong, it was like a physical blow. Like being thrown into a wall. Being smothered. Shot at close range with a plasma cannon. Ripped apart. Imploding and exploding at the same time. Emotions rushed through him so quickly, so fiercely, and then waged war within him so vehemently, that a moment came when Jazz briefly lost his mind in it.

Agony. Guilt. Hatred. Disgust. Shame. Horror. Misery. Regret. Loathing. Remorse. Disappointment. Contempt. Rage. Torment.

_Suffering_. So much suffering. More suffering than any spark had a right to feel.

**Self-hatred.**

Jazz's frame seized. His back arched, his head thrown back as a strangled gasp left him. His claws spasmed, digging into Prowl's armour. Every single neural wire he possessed was on fire. He was burning up. His tanks were churning, the energon going sour. The intensity of the assault shorted out his optics, his vision flickering in and out. Only static noise came out his mouthplates.

"Jazz? _Jazz!_"

The pain… Primus, the pain was unbearable. Tearing him up inside. Slashing wounds into his softest places and pouring acid inside. Black, black acid. Festering infections. Rancid, rotting, repulsive diseases.

Hate. Hate. Hate. Self-hate. Disgust. Shame. Lots of shame. So much agony. Too many regrets. Overwhelming guilt.

He was lost in the flood.

It was too much emotion.

It wasn't _normal_.

Normal Cybertronians wouldn't have been able to handle so much emotion. It was more than what should be coming from a backlash. More than... _anything _Jazz had ever experienced before.

Jazz's white optics shot to Prowl, staring at him with wild optics.

"Jazz, say something!" Prowl demanded, shock evident on his faceplate.

Emotions. All of those emotions.

It was as if Prowl felt things a thousand times beyond what a normal bot could. A single emotion magnified to impossible extremes. He felt them more deeply than anyone else. More intensely. The sensation was visceral. Primal. _Powerful_.

No wonder Prowl felt the need to turn his emotional centre off! Who could live like this? It was torture! But turning it all off was part of the problem. Turning the centre back on would magnify those already-intense emotions. It was a miracle Prowl hadn't simply put a plasma rifle to his head and pulled the trigger.

Hard hands gripped him. His frame was shaken. Prowl was shouting things at him, but the words didn't make sense. Jazz reacted, though. He reacted instinctually, lashing out with a violent slash of his claws. Prowl jerked back, releasing him. Jazz was on his feet instantly, stumbling backwards. Away from Prowl.

Prowl shot to his feet, trying to follow. "Jazz! Jazz, please stop! Jazz, _stop_!"

Too late. The edge of the dais came. Jazz's next step met air, and suddenly his world was toppling backwards. His head hit the floor first, the rest of his frame following quickly with a terrible crash. Everything ceased to work for one dark, terrible, black moment. In a flash, Jazz's optics reinitialized. He gasped for air, desperate for something to cool his burning innards. The shock of the fall had ended the memory, but spasms of it still ran through his frame. He felt like he was trying to crawl out of his own armour.

"Jazz, are you all right?" Prowl demanded, leaping off the dais in order to grab the fallen mech and drag him to his feet. "Say something, damn it!"

The moment Jazz was steady, he yanked himself away from the tactician. His optics went from wide and wild to dark and shrewd. He was forced to grab the edge of the dais to brace his weight. "How…" He gritted his mouthplates, forcing his vocal processor to stop shaking. "How can you feel all of that without going insane?"

Prowl searched Jazz optics for more, but found that the saboteur had closed himself off. His optics reflected nothing but light. Unsure of how to answer, he asked, "Was it really that unusual?"

"Ya have no idea," Jazz replied. He shuttered his optics, his mind racing faster than ever before. Faster and faster. Thoughts flying at the speed of light. So many thoughts. Questions. Interests. Puzzles. Puzzles. Puzzles. Primus, what a puzzle! How does a mech who wants nothing to do with emotion end up feeling them at such an amplified level? How? _Why?_

"I take it this session is over now, yes?" Prowl wondered, his expression now as shut down as Jazz's.

There was no way to tell what either mech was thinking.

"Yes." Jazz took a step back. Then another. He needed to regroup. Rethink his methods. He needed better plans. He needed to work on this puzzle. So much uncontrolled intensity. Power. What would it feel like to control it? Harness it? To grip it between his hands and drive it higher, wilder, and then make it explode? Could he make Prowl explode with it? Was it the same for positive emotions? Could Prowl feel joy the same way he felt sorrow? Could he feel passion the same way he felt hatred?

Jazz wanted to know. He wanted to know _everything_.

He spun on his heel, heading straight for the exit. One of the walls of the dojo disappeared, revealed the exit of the training range. Jazz did not pause as he walked through, merely tossing the words "Ah'll contact ya once Ah figure out when our next session will be," over his shoulder.

Never once did he look back.


	14. Chapter 14

Hey everyone! Here's the next chapter for you all to enjoy! It's a special chapter, because it marks the one year anniversary of _Where You and I Collide_! I didn't even realize the one year mark had come until I glanced at the publish date on the fic. It seems like only yesterday that I was posting the first chapter to this thing. Wow… well, I just want to say that I am deeply grateful to and honoured by everyone who has read and reviewed this story. You guys have played such a big part in helping to make _Where You and I Collide_ the success that it is~ Here's hoping that success can be carried on into the New Year! ^_^

My deepest and most sincere thanks to: **Gatekat, BoredTech, Luck-of-the-Irishman, renegadewriter8, CNightJoy, DitzyMusicLover, Anasazi Darkmoon, kathy3meme, Yami Dragoness of Dark, Phoebe Turner, PrancingTiger86, lilyoftheval5, Jinx, Christina, Peacewish, Optimus Bob, Silvering, Kai-chan94, Chloo, Marinelife87, JenEvan, Fiera Sabre, SwedishDragon, Sergeant Duck, Faecat, Jade Fallon, Wolfhuntsmoon, femme4prime, animelover1993, FoghornLeghorn83, chaitea16, Daklog73, TanithLipsky, Dramastar-Mel**, and **Bluebird Soaring**~ All of you have been my inspirations and my reasons for continuing this story. If you haven't caught on by now, I'll just come out and say it: You guys are the best! ^_^

Happy One Year Anniversary of _Where You and I Collide_, everyone!

**Chapter 14**

Prowl adjusted his seat for the sixth time that joor and returned to the reports he had steadily working on since he'd walked into his office. There was quite a bit of work to be done, seeing as Smokescreen had inconveniently decided to interface with some visiting bots from Epsilon and caught a virus from one of them. The virus was not particularly serious, thankfully. However, the virus had messed with Smokescreen language files, so he was now stuck speaking in rhyme until Ratchet or First Aid fixed him.

Since Prowl was not interested in reading reports that would rhyme Prime with anything fine, or any other kind of silliness like that, he was now stuck doing his second-in-command's work on top of his own.

True, he could have delegated the work to someone else in his division. Yet, he found that he came up with all kinds of excuses whenever he began to consider the option. He didn't like Risk's writing style, and Chess-piece had horrible spelling. Eagle Eye was adequate in both writing style and spelling, but he was from Polyhex territory. Strictly speaking, it was unprofessional of Prowl to hold anyone's territory or colony of origin against them, but Polyhex's grammatical structure varied enough from standard Cybertronian that it drove Prowl a little crazy to read that minibot's reports. He had similar excuses for every bot in his division.

Prowl also recognized that he was being petty and the only _real_ reason he took on all the extra work by himself was because he needed a distraction. If he did not keep his mind busy on mundane tasks, he found that his thoughts would stray to a specific saboteur lurking around somewhere on base. These thoughts were not of affectionate distraction where the silver mech was concerned. Prowl was quite certain that the orn he was affectionately distracted by Jazz was the orn the pit would rust over.

No, he was suffering from trepidation and a lingering sense of unease wherever Jazz was concerned.

Nearly two dozen orns had passed since their first and last meeting in the holodeck. Jazz had not spoken to him since their short exchange at the end before he had abruptly left. Prowl did not want to go so far as to claim that Jazz was outright avoiding him, but the evidence certainly seemed to add up to that one conclusion. It was not only that they had not spoken, but also that Prowl had very rarely _seen_ the mech around base other than in passing. Prowl would nod to him out of courtesy when they passed in the halls, only rarely witnessing any return acknowledgement. Jazz's visor was down permanently in public, his mouth set in a firm line every time Prowl had caught sight of him. They studiously avoided gazes. Jazz almost always looked like he was hunting something.

If Prowl wished to be naïve about the situation, he could attribute the saboteur's behaviour to his new responsibility as the Autobot's consultant. That was laughable. He very much doubted Jazz's full time would be so totally consumed by such a seemingly mundane task. This conclusion only led him to believe that Jazz's thoughts were of a more… esoteric nature. He was reluctant to say _insidious_ when he was endeavouring to place his trust in Jazz, but did not rule out the possibility of a nefarious plot brewing.

The manner in which Jazz had left the holodeck that first time left Prowl entirely unsettled. Never had he seen Jazz so unsettled over something. It made him feel suspicious of the nature of his own emotions, and made him wary of whatever retaliation Jazz might be plotting.

One question still haunted him:

_"How can you feel all of that without going insane?"_

Was he really _that_ unusual?

It might have occurred to him once or twice that there might have been something different about his programming. He was not completely blind to the differences between himself and others. He was especially cognizant of his shortcomings when compared to Smokescreen, who had been brought online at the same time as him with essentially the same function and programming. He was very much aware of his shortcomings. But he had only wondered a few times if there was something truly _wrong_ with him.

After Jazz had so tactfully spat that question at him- _"How can you feel all of that without going insane?" _-Prowl had decided to examine his experiences more closely to see if he could understand the difference.

When he had been newly brought online, he had been as average as anyone else. Emotions had been a curious indulgence he could not resist, even when other pre-programs in the precinct had warned against it. Prowl had actually enjoyed feeling happy. He liked understanding and laughing at jokes. Passion had been addictive, in both goal-orientated and romantic forms. There had been nothing different about him.

He noted that his memories of violent, disturbing, and traumatizing events as a Security Response officer coincided with his experiences of uncontrolled and unstable emotions. For the first time, he consciously noted and logged the increasing severity of his experiences. He compared it with the memories of bots he had interfaced with at the time and saw the disparity.

The increasing severity of his experiences had been what prompted him to seek ways of shutting his emotions off altogether. Little did he know, or more accurately _little did he want to acknowledge_, pursuing that path would ultimately lead to the exacerbation of the anomaly.

Prowl sighed, staring down at the report he was working on without really seeing it.

He had created his own weaknesses in his search for strength.

He had failed himself when he had aspired to be great in himself and for others.

He had only ever made problems worse when he sought only to solve them.

In conclusion, he was the product of his own foolishness.

"_How can you feel…without going insane?" _

It was his own fault that he was so flawed. He was weak inside. With every episode of turning his emotional centre off and on, he was ravaged a little deeper. He was turned a little more pathetic. From the very first moment he had turned off his emotional centre so many vorns ago, he had known it was wrong. Medically and morally, turning off his emotional centre was wrong. But he justified his actions as the best course of action for himself and the bots he was responsible for.

He dealt with his issues on his own so no one else would know how weak he was inside. It was a failure to let anyone else know how hollowed out and decrepit he'd become. His spark was exhausted from the constant battle.

To feel or not to feel.

"…_feel…insane?" _

As much as he despised himself for admitting it, Jazz was his only hope for gaining control of himself. Jazz had taken it upon himself to seek out all of Prowl's weaknesses. He had found them, had been properly disgusted by them, and then had decided to fix the problem. The offer still stunned the tactician when he tried to figure it out. But beyond Prowl's inability to completely comprehend the inner workings of the saboteur, Jazz had spared him the humiliation of asking for help. Prowl had not been given a choice, and he was somewhat glad for that.

Jazz certainly possessed the skills to help him. There was a strange kind of hope offered by the thought.

However, if Jazz's prolonged avoidance was any indication, there was a chance his disgust had overridden his desire to help.

If Jazz reneged on their arrangement, there were not many options left for Prowl to consider…

A bright white visor suddenly shoved itself in his faceplate.

"What'cha thinkin' about, Prowler?"

With a shout of alarm, Prowl jumped away from his desk. In a bid to defend himself, he attempted to assume a battle-ready pose, only to have his chair catch him around his legs. With a second shout, this time of surprise, he gracelessly flipped backwards to the floor. An embarrassingly loud crash followed him to the floor.

Jazz, predictably, thought it was hilarious. He tossed himself back into the spare seat in the office and had himself a good laugh. He watched from underneath his glittering visor as Prowl scrambled to his feet. His smirk was Cheshire as the storm-grey mech forced himself to stop fumbling. He said nothing as the head tactical advisor righted his chair and sat down in it with a series of severely clipped movements. As composed a storm cloud contained a glass jar.

Finally, Jazz said something: "Ya should have seen the look on your faceplate. It was priceless!" His smirk was predictably full of the glee inspired by causing someone else's humiliation.

Prowl felt his frame give an involuntary twitch of aggravation. It was amazing how quickly he found himself missing the moments when Jazz had been ignoring him. He cycled a deep drag of air, trying to figure out how anyone could have snuck up on him in his own office. Then he noticed something very odd about his company, an oddness that would account for Prowl not noticing his approach in the first place.

"Where the pit is your spark?" he asked incredulously.

Jazz shrugged. "In a jar beside mah berth."

Prowl arched an optic ridge, using his most severe expression. "Where is your spark _signature_?"

"On vacation?"

Prowl continued to stare until it was no longer fun for Jazz.

"Fine, give meh an astrosecond." A panel of armour clicked away on his arm and he tampered with something underneath. Jazz's spark resonance appeared on scanners as if it had always been there. "There, happy now?"

"Ecstatic." And because he couldn't just let such a useful ability be ignored, despite the fact that it had just been used to humiliate him, he asked, "How did you do it without a dampener?"

The saboteur didn't answer right away. He leaned back in his chair and appeared to be seriously contemplating the pros and cons of giving up that personal secret. He canted his head in Prowl's direction. Even though Prowl could not see the bot's optics, he knew he was being sized up. The tactician didn't bother to look away. Instead, he met the stare unblinkingly.

Jazz smirked, coming to a decision. "It's a trick Ah picked up with magnetic fields," he said. "It's a bit complicated and ya gotta have the right magnetic generator components, but if ya tweak 'em the right way, it bends your signature until scanners can't register it anymore. Like ya saw, it can make a bot's spark virtually invisible. It's a useful little trick."

"This is how you've been making your way around base tormenting others undetected?"

"Not always," the saboteur replied, full of mischief. "Ah have other ways of getting around, ya know? This one just makes things more convenient for meh."

"It would be an excellent technique for Special Ops and Intelligence & Espionage to have," Prowl pointed out.

Jazz gave a nonchalant shrug, turning his olfactory sensor up like a spoiled bratling. "Maybe some orn."

"Maybe some orn soon?" Prowl prompted, fishing for an advantage for his faction. He was _always_ searching for an advantage.

"Sure," the saboteur drawled. "Ah'll hand over mah secrets the orn Mirage has a personality change or the pit rusts over. Whichever comes first."

"Not any time soon, then?" Prowl sighed, not exactly disappointed. He had expected Jazz to give up his secrets as much as he expected Mirage to go through that sudden personality change. Both would be useful and progressive for everyone, but neither was likely to happen.

"Pretty much," Jazz shrugged with a half-smile, uninterested in anything else but himself… and Prowl. The Autobots could go suck exhaust fumes.

Prowl shook his head, almost giving way to a wry smile. How strange it was that within the span of a few breems, he could go from worrying over what Jazz had planned for him, to wishing Jazz would continue to ignore him, to _this_… They were almost having an amiable conversation. The emotional whiplash nearly gave him a headache, not to mention the bother it gave him trying to get it to compute with his logic circuits. He was actually almost _enjoying_ the company.

Jazz, too, appeared to be in an unusually good mood. "Ya up for another lesson?"

Prowl arched an optic ridge, surprised by the sudden offer. "Now?"

"Now," Jazz confirmed, swinging to his feet. "Either now or never. You choose."

Prowl glanced to his work, then back to Jazz. He quickly weighed his options. The risk of refusing this time and having Jazz permanently refuse to help him in the future was too much of a risk to take. Pushing away from his desk, Prowl rose to his feet.

"I choose now," he said.

Jazz smiled. "Good. And lucky for ya, Ah brought a present." He turned for the door, let it hiss open, then stuck his head out into the hall. Curious of the matter, Prowl scanned the area and found a secondary spark signature waiting in the hall. It was a familiar signature, from a bot in his own division. Jazz stepped away from the doorway and Eagle Eye came in with a brief bow.

Prowl stared, both optic ridges arched.

Jazz patted Eagle Eye on the shoulder, smirking for Prowl. "Don't worry about him screwing up your reports," he said. "Ah made him download a standard written Cybertronian file as soon as he agreed so he won't be writing like a Polyhex reject anymore."

Eagle Eye shifted from one foot to the other. If he was insulted, he wisely didn't show it. "Commander, you should have said something about having a perimeter run today. You shouldn't have to look after everything by yourself, especially when Smokescreen is in the med bay. I can look after the reports until you get back."

"A perimeter run?" Prowl repeated unsurely.

"Yeah, that perimeter run ya said ya were gonna run for Ultra Magnus since he has ta oversee that base maintenance issue he mentioned," Jazz said pointedly.

Oh, right. _That_ perimeter run.

"Yes, of course." Prowl said unsteadily, his mind racing to adjust to the newly introduced fabrication. "I completely forgot that I agreed to that for Ultra Magnus. I've been rather distracted as of late…"

Jazz shrugged easily, perfectly at ease with the lie. "No problem. Figured ya might have forgot. Since Ah'm bored, Ah thought Ah'd go with ya on the run."

"Thank you for reminding me, Jazz," Prowl said tightly, and then inclined his head to his subordinate tactician. "And thank you for agreeing to cover for me, Eagle Eye. I appreciate it."

"Of course, commander."

It was not Prowl's best acting job. Normally, he was a very good liar, albeit not always a very creative one, but Jazz had him stumbling this time. Eagle Eye obviously heard the peculiarity in his voice. The minibot said nothing, though his trained gaze did travel curiously between Prowl and Jazz.

To discourage any further curiosity, Prowl immediately switched his gaze to Jazz. "Are you ready to leave now?"

Jazz smiled real slow, obviously laughing inside. "Only if you are."

"Yes, I very much am." He quickly came around his desk and ushered Jazz into the hall before any more suspicion or humiliation could occur in front of one of his subordinates.

The door hissed shut behind them, leaving Eagle Eye to his work. The minibot was a well-trained warrior and an excellent tactician; he was trained to know when to speak and when it was best to remain silent. For this unusual instance between his commander and the dangerous Neutral he was engaged with, no one would ever hear a word from him.

* * *

They walked side-by-side down the halls in amiable silence.

Well, Jazz was comfortably silent. Prowl, on the other hand, was mentally berating himself for his lacklustre performance in his office at the same time he was trying to figure out what Jazz had in store for him. They moved through the halls at a brisk pace, quick enough that they were not wasting time, but not fast enough to draw unwanted attention. They moved so closely to each other that their shoulders would often brush. Prowl was not a popular figure in Iacon, and neither was Jazz, so very few Autobots offered greetings as they passed. On the other hand, both bots were objects of curiosity in Iacon's rumour mill, so several heads did turn, optic ridges arching.

To encourage the image that they were going out on a perimeter run, they took the long way to the training ranges. They made it outside the main complex in Iacon and took a sharp left around the building. As they went, the security cameras flickered out long enough for them to pass without being seen, but not long enough for Red Alert to be alerted to anything unusual. Coming to a discreet alcove tucked into the side of the main complex of Iacon's compound, there was a narrow service door meant for drones. Jazz swung it open and slipped inside. It was too narrow for him to walk normally, so he turned himself sideways. Prowl followed, but even turned sideways he was a little too large for the stairwell and ended up scraping his way down.

They made it to the bottom and followed the service corridor to a lift shaft meant for drones. Again, it was too small for a pair of bots their size, so they made the trip down pressed together awkwardly. It was made worse by the fact that they shared the lift with three drones. The drones didn't stare or acknowledge their presence, but they did take up precious room. Prowl revved uncomfortably. Jazz snickered at Prowl's discomfort. Finally at the right sub-level, they squeezed out of the confining cage, rolling their joints and flaring out flexible parts of their armour, rearranging everything that had been displaced. Prowl attempted to move ahead for the door that would take them into the regular hallways, but Jazz grabbed his arm and yanked him back.

"Ah checked your schematics- ya have the right magnetic components," he said before popping open a panel on Prowl's arm. Prowl didn't jerk away. He stood still and observed as Jazz skilfully manipulated field harmonics and pulse rates. With a devilish smile, Jazz flicked the manual switch and suddenly Prowl… _disappeared_.

This wasn't the first time he had ever had his spark resonance suppressed. Covert operations he had been a part of had required dampeners be used to disguise spark resonances for their own protection. No matter how many times he experienced it, he sensation continued to be an unusual one. Especially now, since he was generating the effect instead of an external dampener. Next to him, Jazz quickly disappeared from scanners as well.

"There, now we can go," said the saboteur.

A Cybertronian did not depend very greatly on their sense of sight compared to their dependence on reading sparks. There was little use in being able to visually recognize anyone when a Cybertronian's appearance could be altered drastically relatively easily, from paintjobs to frame modifications to full reformatting. Unless a function specifically required a bot to use their optics for visual recognition, very few Cybertronians developed good visual skills. Spark signatures were virtually unchangeable, and therefore a better identifier to recognize bots by.

Tactically speaking, visual recognition was a valuable skill to have. Prowl had developed his sense as best he could in order to be the best tactical advisor he could be. His efforts obviously paid off, since he had been able to recognize Jazz even without a spark resonance. He had a feeling he would be able to recognize Jazz no matter what.

As the pair passed down the lower-levels halls, they were mostly dismissed as drones by the Autobots they passed. Without spark signatures to catch their attention, there was no reason for anyone to look up. Bluestreak, as a trained sniper, was more dependent on his optics than most, so he recognized the pair right away. He raised his hand to say hello, then hesitated when he couldn't detect their sparks.

"Covert operation," Prowl murmured as he passed the mech. "Say nothing to no one."

"…yes, sir," Bluestreak said, moving on down the hall with a clearly confused look on his faceplate.

Prowl felt marginally redeemed of his lie-telling abilities.

Jazz merely chuckled to himself.

They slipped into an empty training room and locked the door for privacy. Jazz undid his own magnetic dampeners first, then undid Prowl's.

"Well, that was an adventure," said the saboteur lightly.

"Yeah," Prowl replied. He frowned, once again uncertain what his fate in the near-future was going to be.

Without ceremony, Jazz connected to the control panel and activated the desired program. Within moments, the ornate dojo of his past formed.

Having expected the dojo, Prowl was not distracted by it. He instead focused on Jazz and inclined his head. "For a while, I was unsure if you were going to continue our meetings or not."

"Never said Ah wasn't gonna keep doing this. It just took meh a little bit ta figure a few things out," Jazz said with an airy gesture of his hand. "Ah figured them out, so here we are." He nodded toward the dais, trotting over and leaping up. If there was any hesitation in the bot from their last encounter, there was no evidence of it.

Prowl leapt up next to the saboteur, waiting for the new lesson to begin and hoping it wouldn't result in him fighting for his life or Jazz nearly having a meltdown.

"Sit," Jazz ordered.

Still unsure, Prowl walked to the middle of the dais and assumed the correction pose.

"Last time we were here, ya nearly blew mah mind right out of mah head," Jazz said. He did not sit down as he had commanded Prowl to do, but rather paced the perimeter of the dais like a predator. "Ya know, Ah actually took that night ta defrag my entire hard drive, 'cause that little memory of yours jarred everything."

"I had no idea that a backlash was so volatile," Prowl admitted solemnly. "You left so abruptly that I never got to apologize for-."

"Don't bother. Not interested in your apologies," Jazz snorted. "Ah'm interested in what's in that head of yours."

"You know what's in it now… to an extent. What are you going to do about it?" Prowl craned his neck to keep Jazz in his sights as the bot continued to circle the dais. He didn't feel comfortable having his back to the bot.

"Not gonna stab ya in the back, if that's why ya keep watchin' meh like that," Jazz said, arching an optic ridge.

Prowl rolled his optics, almost smirking at being called on his paranoia. "Excuse me if I am being a little uptight, but after several orns of inexplicable silence from you, I would be a fool not to think you were plotting something."

"To be fair, Ah _have_ been plotting something, just not something terribly diabolical."

"For once," Prowl pointed out with small smirk.

Jazz wagged a clawed finger. "It may not be diabolical, but the adjectives 'nefarious' 'insidious' and 'arduous' may still apply."

"Arduous?"

Jazz waved a dismissive hand. "Mostly for you. Ah get the easy parts."

"Why am Ah not surprised?" Prowl drawled.

"Because ya know meh too well now," Jazz replied.

Prowl inclined his head, accepting the answer. Internally, he registered the truth with a fine amount of surprise. There was still a lot about Jazz that he did not know, but he was willing to bet that he knew more about the mech than any other Cybertronian had had the privilege to know in a long time. He was strangely honoured by that fact.

Jazz appeared to realize the same thing; Prowl was one of the very few bots on Cybertron to _know_ him. Knew him better than he had ever let anyone else learn. He had shared very little of himself with Prowl compared to what he knew of the tactician, but the things he had revealed were details he had not given to anyone else. Ever.

Jazz found that he was not offended by the idea of being understood by Prowl.

Prowl cleared his vents politely. "Apparently I do not know you well enough or I would have an idea of what you have been up to these past orns."

"Ah've been doing research," Jazz informed, easing to the floor to sit. "Ah've been tryin' ta dig up as much as Ah could on whatever is going on inside your head, 'cause it sure as pit ain't normal."

"And suddenly everything makes sense," Prowl intoned dryly. "The reason you haven't spoken with me is because you've been busy stalking every medically trained bot on base in order to corner them and appropriate from their heads any files you deemed pertinent to my condition. Am I right?"

Jazz leaned back on his hands comfortably. "It's not like Ah had the luxury of _asking_ them what Ah wanted ta know."

Prowl arched an optic ridge. "The task seems simple enough for a bot of your talents. What took you so long?"

"Ah'll have ya know it's harder than it sounds ta knock a medic unconscious. They got all those backup programs that keep bringing them back online if they pass out for some reason." Jazz huffed a little.

"If you had just gone through Ratchet's mind, I'm sure you would have found everything you needed," Prowl pointed out.

Jazz arched both optic ridges incredulously. "Do Ah look like Ah have a death wish?"

"Perhaps for other bots, but not for yourself," Prowl said honestly. He hadn't meant it as a joke, but his tone came out unusually light…

Their gazes caught. They paused. Smirked. Then looked away.

Jazz shrugged. "Ah've been stuck rootin' around every second-rate medic's mind around here. Ah wanted ta know as much as Ah could before Ah came back ta ya."

"And what did you find out?" The curiosity in his voice did not have to be faked. Prowl was honestly and anxiously curious of what Jazz had discovered. If it was anything that would help him, it was invaluable information to have.

"_Well…"_ drawled the silver minibot. "Found out your unique condition has a name."

"And? What is it?" Prowl leaned in, his desire to know mounting.

Jazz smirked devilishly. "Ya sure ya want ta know?"

"_Yes!"_ There was no disguising his eagerness now. It might very well be his downfall.

Jazz had the audacity to laugh. "Alright, alright, no need ta get testy. What ya have is a little something called 'Emotional Maximum Output syndrome.'"

Prowl leaned back, unfamiliar with such a condition. He ran the name through his data banks and came up with nothing.

Jazz laughed at the confusion coming across the tactican's faceplate. "It's also called EMO syndrome."

"EMO syndrome?" _That_ sounded vaguely more familiar. But not in a good way. It left him feeling a little insulted inside.

Jazz nodded. "Yeah, EMO syndrome."

"I'm an EMO?"

"Yes, you're an EMO."

Prowl stared for a good long breem before saying, "You're making that up."

"Prowler, Ah am a liar about many things, but Ah swear there is no lie Ah could ever tell that is better than telling ya the truth right now," Jazz said honestly, with no small amount of amusement. "Mah extensive research informs meh that ya suffer from Emotional Maximum Output syndrome. It is a real, albeit rare, medical condition. You are an EMO. Get used to it."

Prowl didn't want to get used to it. This was yet another example of how he could humiliate himself without even trying. He had a _medical condition_ that sounded more like a bad joke than a serious ailment. Great.

Prowl stared at Jazz's twitching faceplate with no small amount of chagrin. He never should have bothered to try to learn more about himself. He had been fine functioning in the manner he had been, right? There was nothing wrong with long periods of numbness followed by sporadic instances of blinding agony. He was accustomed to it by now.

If he invested himself in forgetting this meeting ever happened, perhaps he could return to that blissful place of ignorance. If he made the right kind of deal with Jazz, the saboteur could be made to forget as well…

Jazz cleared his vents discreetly, barely able to keep his faceplate straight.

Needlessly, Prowl asked, "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Jazz suddenly grinned broadly. _"Immensely."_

"Nothing I ever say or do will make you forget this, will it?"

"Forget what? The fact that there is a condition called EMO syndrome, or the fact that you are an EMO? There's nothing wrong with being an EMO. Actually, Ah kinda like saying the word EMO. There's something about EMO that makes meh smile. Pairing you and the word EMO in the same sentence is very entertaining." If it was possible, Jazz's grin stretched wider.

"Please stop saying that word," Prowl groaned.

"That only makes meh wanna say it more," Jazz laughed. _"EMO."_

Prowl let his faceplate drop into his open palms. Perhaps he could erase all his memories, move to a Neutral camp, and live the rest of his life as an amnesiac hermit. Yes, that was his best option. An amnesiac hermit living as far away as he possibly could from anyone who could recognize him. Being an EMO was just plain _humiliating_.

To his immense surprise, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Not a mocking hand poking and prodding him, either. It was… comforting?

"Hey," Jazz said. His voice was soft now, completely contrary to the tone he had just been using.

Prowl tried to shrug him off, but the hand remained.

_"Hey," _Jazz said again, this time with a little more emphasis. "It's not the end of the world."

He looked up, meeting Jazz's gaze. The visor was gone. He could still see humour in the mech's optics, but he'd reined it in, ordering his expression into something neutral and inoffensive. Prowl's gaze slowly traveled to the hand grasping his shoulder. It remained there for an astrosecond more before falling away.

"Ah don't care what the damn thing is called. Ah said Ah was gonna help ya, and Ah am," the saboteur said. "Just don't expect meh not ta make fun of ya while we're doing this."

Prowl sighed, the edges of his mouthplates almost curling up. How odd it was to know he could depend on Jazz to stick with a challenge no matter the odds. It was oddly comforting in a twisted kind of way. He sat up straighter, raising his chin so that he no longer looked so defeated. Jazz was right; this was not the end of the world. Knowledge was power. He knew what affected him now. He needed to know how to fix it.

Meeting Jazz's gaze once more, Prowl inclined his head. "Tell me what you know, please."

Surprisingly complacent, Jazz nodded. "Alright… The condition affects about one in every five hundred thousand pre-programs, and mostly only those who have been brought online without emotion, like yourself. Causes aren't a hundred percent clear, but it's suspected that bots who try to repress or delete emotion end up concentrating and magnifying them instead. There could be other issues compounding this one, like corrupted data or a crosswiring. Most bots figure out something's wrong quick enough, but you've let it carry on for a while..."

Prowl nodded. "Is there any treatment?"

Jazz made a face. "The same treatment there is for everything else- reprogramming or deletion." He paused, then asked, "Ya had a dampener installed, didn't ya? The one that was developed for the war, Ah mean."

An emotional dampening program that had been ordered to be installed in all operating warriors on both sides of the war. It had been a necessary development. Before the program, bots who became overwhelmed by the war would simply lay down in the middle of a battle field and never get up again. Their sparks broken, ripped apart, and beaten down to dust; once they gave up, their sparks faded away within orns. The dampener made it so that warriors didn't feel the horrors of war so strongly. They could carry on fighting. Even though it meant they sacrificed the joys of victory, too.

Storm-grey shoulders drooped, and Prowl's optics dimmed. "Yes, for all the good it did me." Which it had done no good at all. The program had barely put a dent in Prowl's problem. That should have been a hint that there was something different about him. He should have swallowed his pride and sought Ratchet for help… But he didn't, so here he was, with one of the most dangerous bots on the planet, depending on him for help. Prowl searched Jazz's white gaze, then asked, "Did you…?"

"Get the dampener installed? Nah, didn't need it. There are worse things to live through than this war." He said it so nonchalantly, as if it didn't matter anymore. As if it never mattered in the first place. But there were also shadows in his optics, left there from whatever he had been forced to live through.

Prowl looked away.

Jazz shifted. "Ah take it reprogramming and deletion are out of the question?"

"Yes."

"Figured as much," said the saboteur. "We'll just have to do it the hard way. It'll be the way Ah learned ta do things, but since you feel things so strongly… it'll be harder learning control. Like trying ta control a hurricane. Ya up for that?"

"Do I have a choice?" Prowl sighed.

"Not really." Jazz suddenly moved to his feet, holding out a hand to help Prowl up. His visor was down again, his faceplate turned away as if he couldn't stand to look at Prowl directly. Or even look at him at all. "It won't be pretty. It's gonna hurt, a lot. If it hurt for meh, it's gonna hurt a thousand times worse for ya."

Prowl felt unease churn through his spark. He could not imagine what kinds of things Jazz had been through to make his faceplate look so haunted. But he didn't have to imagine, did he? He was going to find out. There was no backing down.

He came to his feet and stood tall. "It has to be done. I'm ready."

"I know," sighed the saboteur. "And Ah'm… sorry."

Shocked to have an apology for anything, Prowl sputtered, "For what?"

"For what Ah'm about to do."

A fist came up and punched him dead center in the faceplate.


	15. Chapter 15

It's been a little while since I've been able to update this story, but _Where You and I Collide_ is an extraordinarily dense and complex piece of writing for me, so it takes a lot of brain power to formulate a single chapter. Jazz and Prowl, as they appear here, are stubborn and tricky little bastards to write and sometimes they make me want to bash their heads against a wall. *sigh* But enough complaining on my part. Honestly, I just hope that this chapter offers enough enjoyment, and perhaps a bit of mystery, to satisfy my many readers out there. If you have a good time reading, don't hesitate to leave a review! Inspiration usually comes faster that way. =P

My sincerest thanks to the amazing and enthusiastic reviewers of the last chapter: **femme4prime, WolvesFire77, Gatekat, Christina, phoebe turner, Bluebird Soaring, LionLover190, PrancingTiger86, BoredTech, Kai-Chan94, Peacewish, Anon, Ayumi, Fiera Sabre, FoghornLeghorn83, shantastic, shadowblade-tara, smoking caramels, Yami Dragoness of Dark, CNightJoy, Maverick1997, animelover1993, Anasazi Darkmoon, SavvyEnigma, Kasuto Vero, kyleisdabest, Swedish Dragon, Faecat, Cynthia, renegadewriter8, chaitea16, MissyMoo, DitzyMusicLover, Chloo, wynterarrow, Got Buttermilk, Midnight Marquis, ElementalFallenStar**, and **Mokoto-chan92**. Honestly, there's no way that I can express how grateful I am for your consideration in reviewing this story~ Thank you so much from the bottom of my heart!

**Chapter 15 **

_With a well-placed kick from her spring-loaded legs, Jazz's body was flung high into the air. _

_His mouthplates opened, but he didn't cry out when he was struck. His vocal processor had already been crushed. He _couldn't_ scream anymore. Not that he would have bothered if he could. He'd stopped screaming a lot time ago. There was no point. No one would hear him. No one would care. _

_He felt his plating cave in with the impact of the kick, metal cracking and his innards burning in agony. Gravity left him for a few astroseconds while he hung in the air. It was a freeing, weightless moment when time seemed to freeze. The pain almost seemed to leave. His escape was only temporary; he didn't hope for anything more. Hope was for fools. After that brief moment, gravity came back. His arm was grabbed before his faceplate could smash into the floor. His frame was flung around and around, gaining momentum like a hurricane. The world became a blur, only to stop abruptly when he was let go. _

_Again came the sinister feeling of weightlessness before he hit the wall. _

_All the air rushed out of him. His fans stuttered, barely able to work anymore. The force of the impact dislodged one of his optics, jerking it out if its socket. Wires kept it attached to his head. He crumpled to the floor, too weak to even curl into a ball. A weird rattling noise came from all around him. It was his frame trembling uncontrollably. He could _feel_ his optic dangling against his faceplate. It was still working, so he could see distorted images through it. _

_He could see _her_ coming for him. _

_Out of a sense of self-preservation, Jazz forced himself to be the master of his own pain. He swallowed the searing agony, reined in the burning torture, and rolled over. He commanded his broken arms to work. Energon spurted out of split lines as he tried to sit up. Sparks from frayed wires hissed and spat. Something in his back cracked so loud it was like a shot from a gun, followed by a terrifying numbness spreading through his lower half. Nearly every part of his body was broken. _

_There was a part of him that didn't see the point anymore. To lie down and let it happen; let her abuse finally take him into oblivion. A secret part inside his spark welcomed the idea of the end. _

_A bigger part of him railed against the idea. He'd come too far to just lie down and take it. He was a survivor! _

_He was a fighter, damn it! _

_He could see her feet standing next to his head, the tips of those sharp feet stained blue with energon. She wasn't moving. She was watching him with those hard, sparkless optics of hers. They weren't normal, those optics. They saw more than Jazz could ever hope to see in the universe, and they hated everything they saw._

_She nudged him with her foot. Jazz attempted to shove her away. He only managed to brush her with the back of his hand. _

_There came a sigh, and then she crouched next to him. He could see her faceplate; it was not beautiful. It was frightening, covered in centuries worth of scars and protected by heavy layers of armour. Glowering amongst the dark metal was a pair of unblinking optics. Jazz raised his arm again to try and defend himself. It could have been a hallucination brought on by pain, but Jazz almost wanted to say there was pity on her faceplate. _

"_I wish you'd figure this out soon," she sighed. Her hand came up, grasping his raised limb. For a moment, she contemplated the thin arm, the broken metal, the energon that stained her palm… and then she twisted that arm until it came out of its socket. _

_Jazz's whole frame arched from the floor, driven blind and insane from the fury of pain that consumed him. In the aftermath, he writhed. He did not cry. Did not scream. But he twitched and jerked and panted like a rabid animal. Every move he made was watched with cool disinterest. She never took pleasure in what she did. Then again, she never seemed to dislike what she did, either. When she released his arm, she laid her hand to his head in a pseudo-kind gesture. _

"_You're almost there," she said, neither praising nor admonishing. It was merely an observation of fact. _

_Wherever "there" was supposed to be, Jazz could only guess. Like every time at the end of these so-called "lessons", he stared up at his master with silent imploring, hoping to discover when it would all end. _

_His master was not blind. She could see the question in his optics. She rose to her feet and brushed herself off. There would never be a straight answer for Jazz. He would never have an answer that would satisfy him to the core and absolve him of the torture he endured. Not right now, at least. All she could give him was a couple of words to fill the wretched silence:_

"_You've got to break it down before you can rebuild." _

_She turned on her heel and was gone. _

_Jazz was left alone. _

_Always. _

_**Alone. **_

* * *

After the initial strike, Jazz jerked back and watched Prowl's reaction. The motion of Prowl's head jerking back was like the coiling of a whip before it cracked. Jazz had hit with all his strength, so the metal of Prowl's olfactory sensor caved in. An energon line must have been sliced, because energon started to ooze down the tactician's faceplate. He stumbled back a step. In the same motion, his hands shot to his faceplate as the shock and pain commanded him to recoil and protect his faceplate.

Through it all, Prowl did not make a noise. He was utterly silent.

Jazz glared. He had screamed the first time his master had struck him. He'd learned not to scream after, but that very first time, he'd _screamed_. Like Prowl, he'd never seen the attack coming. Unlike Prowl, he'd been _young_. Fresh from running away from the Youth Sectors, stolen into Xerxia's care; that first time his lessons began, he'd screamed, kicked, punched, cried, and fought as hard as he could. Not that it helped him much. The rational part of his processor accepted that Prowl's experience of war would have curbed his instinct to scream, yet there was still that seething irrational part of him that didn't want to be less when compared to another.

Prowl felt Jazz's glare, but ignored it for the moment. Instead, he gave attention to the injury he just won; his hands fell away from his faceplate to observe the energon now coating his palms. In a matter of astroseconds, energon flow was rerouted so the wound would stop oozing. It wasn't the first time someone had broken his olfactory sensor, and certainly not the first time anyone had punched him in the faceplate, so he dealt with the matter as he usually did: calmly and internally. There was no sense in broadcasting his shock or immediate confusion. Because logic dictated he should, especially with Jazz watching him as he was, Prowl assumed a ready defensive pose.

"Keep your emotional center on," Jazz ordered, eyeing his opponent coldly. "And don't bother turning off your neural circuits."

Prowl's optics flashed for a moment, then he resumed his normal neutral expression. "Why?" he asked, more out of polite habit than an actual need to know the answer. He could only assume, and rightfully so, that training to control emotions required a functioning emotional center.

"So you can feel it when I do _this,_" the silver mech replied, shooting forward to strike Prowl again in the faceplate. His first strike was deflected, a testament to Prowl's own training. Jazz snorted, undeterred. His second strike was a fraction faster than the first, cutting through Prowl's defense. The saboteur's fist hit its mark on the side of Prowl's jaw with a satisfyingly violent _crack_! The power behind the punch was enough to dislocate the tactician's jaw.

Prowl could not even scream in response to the searing pain that shot through his faceplate. He could feel the metal joints grinding out of place. It was not the worst pain he had ever experienced, but the suddenness of it shocked him. His defence dropped. Once more, his hands shot to his damaged faceplate. Under his touch, he felt the crookedness of his jaw. It was jerked to the left in a grotesque position, locked in a way that prevented him from moving it. A vague gurgling sound fell from between his asymmetrical mouthplates. His optics shot to Jazz. For a brief moment, there was something of regret on the saboteur's faceplate, but it was quickly replaced with a neutral expression.

"Pain is like emotion," said the saboteur. "Ya gotta learn ta control it, or it controls you. Ta control it, ya have ta _feel _it first."

Prowl's expression hardened, his head jerking in a barely perceptible acknowledgment of the order. He might not have understood what was happening to him and the orders he was being served made no particular sense, but he was bound to obey. There was determination in his optics. He wanted to rid himself of his weakness so badly that he was willing to die a thousand times just to live. With shaking hands, he reached up and took hold of either side of his disconnected jaw. He steeled himself, and then jerked the part back into place. There came an audible crack-crunch and grinding noise with the motion. With his neural circuits on, Prowl felt every moment of the self-torture. His frame coiled tight, so tense it looked as if it would snap.

Morbid curiosity struck Jazz in that moment. There was nothing quite like watching someone suffering through torture. "Are you EMO about physical pain, too?"

There was a long interim of silence as Prowl continued to process his dislocated jaw being put back into place. His gaze flickered to Jazz with an unquestionable glare simmering in them, but he didn't dare say anything to the saboteur in his current condition. Increment by increment, his frame relaxed. Finally, he dared to open and close his mouthplates with a grimace, his level of discomfort finally reduced to a manageable level.

"Well?" Jazz prompted.

"I am only EMO about emotional pain. However, that does not mean physical pain doesn't hurt," Prowl managed to reply, though his tone was strained. Not only did it cost him dearly to speak aloud, but he hated having to admit to that dreaded condition. _EMO_. What a humiliating name for a condition! His glare was caustic as it met Jazz's gaze.

"Figured as much," replied the saboteur, undaunted by Prowl's glare. There would be many glares and other angry looks in store for the future. He shook out his fists, loosening his stance. He jigged from foot to foot, testing his own weight, his own balance. Just a bit of a warm up before the real show began. Prowl, as always, watched with calculating optics. Jazz almost wanted to laugh at him, but more out of pity than cruel amusement. There was no mystery about this session that could be calculated. No logic that would give credence to the beating he was about to receive. It was one of the most important parts of the training, but that didn't mean it had to make sense. It just had to _hurt._

"Sparring is part of the training, then?" enquired the tactician. His eased into a defensive pose as he spoke, arms rising a little higher than necessary to better protect his faceplate.

This time, Jazz did laugh. It was cold sound. "This ain't no sparring match."

"Then what is it?" Prowl asked uneasily.

"An initiation," Jazz replied, launching into a third attack. It would have been a lethal series of attacks if Prowl had not been able to counter them as well as he did. The short break they had had in between had given the tactician enough time to gain his bearings. He was now ready for a proper fight. When given incentive, he could easily give as good as he got.

Jazz always liked coming upon a good opponent. It was such a rare occasion to enjoy a proper fight; he liked to savour the challenge before thoroughly beating it into the ground. For as long as he had known Prowl, the mech had always presented a great challenge. If all went well with this training, then the tactician would become an even more formidable challenge to Jazz… which he could not deny made him eager to complete the training. However, in the context of _this_ initial phase of the training, determination to fight was only going to draw it out longer than it had to. Jazz had been young when he'd gone through the same thing; he'd only lasted a handful of sessions before it was over. Prowl was both strong and stubborn; his initiation would take much longer and hurt a lot more.

Much like their first sparring match in the courtyard, they quickly synced with each others' movements. It was their private dance of rhythm and power. Punch. Withdraw. Counter. Block. Kick. However, this match was far more intense. The intimacy with which they knew each other brought their exchange to a whole new level of extreme. They knew each other's movements, their timing; how fast they were, how sharp their reflexes.

Prowl pivoted, avoiding another punch to the faceplate. Jazz ducked, evading having his olfactory sensor clipped. The saboteur recovered fast from the evasion, feigning to the left, then slashing on the right. Prowl weaved out of the way. The paint on their forearms quickly was scraped away as they continued to stonewall each other through blocks and parries. Sparks would light the air with the power of metal meeting metal. The sounds of their clashing frames echoed loudly through the holographic dojo, creating a deafening crescendo accompanied by their grunts and the occasional snarl or curse.

In a particularly brilliant display of viciousness, Prowl grabbed Jazz by the horns and rammed the saboteur's faceplate into his upraised knee. The impact cracked Jazz's visor, large chunks of crystal falling out of it. They both stumbled back. Prowl did not look perturbed by the damage he inflicted. He looked rather smug.

"Revenge for the faceplate?" Jazz laughed, pulling the whole visor off and tossing it to the side. He was _impressed_ by the attack. He honestly hadn't seen that one coming.

"Revenge is such a harsh term. I was settling a score," Prowl replied, arching an optic ridge daringly. He extended a hand and motioned for Jazz to come at him.

"Don't get cocky, half-bit. You'll regret it," Jazz warned. It was time to get down to business. Heeding Prowl's invitation, he attacked yet again. They met several times blow for blow, but Jazz came through with the superior hand. His extra training gave him the advantage in the fighting style, while his age gave him greater experience with the movements. Regardless of all of that, it was his willingness to fight dirty that allowed him to grab a hidden blade from his arm and stab it into Prowl's side without a care.

This time, Prowl did cry out.

Upon hearing the noise, Jazz did not feel the satisfaction he thought he would. Instead, he felt reluctance for the act. He did not want to hurt Prowl so severely. Whatever the case, what he felt mattered little. He was committed to seeing the motions through. Instead of wrenching out the weapon as he might have done for any other occasion, Jazz dragged the serrated edge straight through Prowl's side, carving a deep gouge. When the blade finally emerged, it was tangled in sparking wires. With a quick flick, the squirming wires were discarded to the floor. Hot energon poured out of the newly created wound.

Jazz almost felt something at the sight of the wound he's inflicted. Unlike Prowl, he was the master of himself and refused to feel something he did not want to feel. He took the unwanted emotions and thoroughly locked them away where they would not distract him from his business. This was not the time nor place to feel anything for his opponent. He watched dispassionately as Prowl's hands became drenched in his own life-giving fluids. Energon pulsed from the wound with every beat of his pump. There was accusation in the tactician's optics as he stared up at Jazz.

"Ah said it was gonna hurt," said the saboteur. It might have been an apology. On the other hand, it also could have been an '_I told you so'_

Prowl's glare intensified.

"Having second thoughts?" Jazz wondered, his optic ridge arching harshly. If Prowl was was, that was too damn bad for him. He was just going to have to suffer.

There came a curt shake of the tactician's head. "Not… backing out," he grunted. The hands holding his side tightened. He grimaced in pain; the urge to shut down his neural circuits was there, but he heeded Jazz's orders. He felt his innards squirming, the burn of his gouged plating seared into his processor. "I… don't know what… you want from me."

Jazz shook his head. "This isn't about what _Ah_ want."

In a blink, he was on top of Prowl. They rolled like a whirlwind across the dais, their arms and legs flying as one mech tried to defend himself while the other simply went for the kill. Jazz's serrated blade landed twice more in the wild struggle. It dug into the upper half of Prowl's right arm, cutting a tension wire. Instantly, the arm was turned useless, unable to move with any purpose. The second attack lodged the blade in Prowl's back, shoved deep into the sensitive part where his wings attached to his back.

Another scream fell from Prowl's mouthplates, his whole frame arching.

The edge of the dais came; gravity took over as their writhing frames fell to the floor. Jazz's reflexes were quick, turning so that Prowl was on the bottom. Though the fall wasn't far, the impact sent a shockwave through Prowl's frame. A choking noise guttered from him, mixed with desperate gasping. He jerked, spasmed, metal wings flapping around uselessly, his frame groaning and creaking with every move. The knife in his back dug its way deeper.

Jazz gave no indication that he heard anything at all. His fists kept flying, slamming into Prowl's frame. Both of the lenses of Prowl's optics cracked, and then the left optic popped out of its socket and rolled out of sight. The bright red chevron that decorated his forehead was bent backwards, half of it broken off. A powerful magnetic pulse to Prowl's shoulder short-circuited his left arm, leaving it paralyzed. Without the use of either of his arms, he was essentially powerless to defend himself. Helplessness did not stop him from trying. Determination shone in his optics somewhere beyond the pain; his frame continued to twist and writhe for freedom. Jazz held steady, continuing to damage whatever he could get his hands on.

While Jazz did this, he did not look directly at Prowl. He fixed his gaze on a spot above Prowl's shoulder on the energon-soaked floor and refused to look anywhere else. His frame moved on autopilot. If he looked at Prowl, he knew he would feel something that he did not want to feel. Even without looking, he felt a twisting, slimy sickness in his spark, spreading beyond the cage of his control like a disease. It had been a very long time since he'd felt something like that. It might have been guilt, or something like it. He knew that there had been a time when he might have taken delight in seeing such a broken side of Prowl as he gasped and squirmed on the floor, but there was no enjoyment now. Instead, that sick feeling continued to churning inside him.

A physical ache began to bloom in Jazz's chest that had nothing to do with injury. A part of him wished to tell Prowl the secret to the initiation that would make it end, but that would defeat the purpose. If Prowl knew, then he would never truly accept what was supposed to happen to him. It had to be his choice. He had to make up his own mind without help from anyone.

Until Prowl figured it out, Jazz was forced to keep breaking him down.

In an act of sparklessness, Jazz plunged his claws into the open wound in Prowl's side, grasping the energon-soaked innards. He squeezed, trying to wrench them out.

A sharp keening noise wrenched from Prowl, drawn up from the very depths of his spark. He arched high, his frame caught in a violent spasm. The light in his one good optic flashed bright before going dark. Tension drained out of his frame as consciousness fled.

Jazz hovered above the storm-grey frame, his claws lingering in the wound. Slowly, he withdrew. He flicked his fingers to dislodge congealing energon from them. In a fluid movement, he was on his feet to assess his own damages rendered by Prowl. They were not severe. Finally, he looked at Prowl's broken frame. Everything he saw had been done by his own hands. He stared for a short moment before he looked away. A long, heavy sigh drained from him. This would not be the last initiation session.

He turned on his heel and left Prowl's side.

However, he did not leave the room.

He could not bring himself to leave Prowl alone.

It took a little effort and some crawling on his hands and knees, but Jazz eventually found Prowl's missing optic. It was cracked and dusty, but still workable. He shined it up with a polishing cloth from his subspace pocket, then wandered back to Prowl's prone form. He sat down next to the frame but did not look at it. Even as energon soaked the floor and smudged his plating, he did not look at Prowl. He did, however, scan the mech to make sure he would live. While the wound in Prowl's side was severe, he would survive it. As some kind of twisted politeness, Jazz slid his hand beneath Prowl's frame and extracted his blade from the mech's back. Prowl was so deeply unconscious that he made no indication of feeling the discomfort.

With the knife tucked away and the whole room silent, Jazz was left to think. He had not expected that hurting someone else would hurt him just as much. It had never really hurt before. Why the pit should empathy kick in now? Just because his own master had did the same things to him didn't mean he had to get all soft and sentimental on Prowl. That was completely useless. It would help neither of them and only hinder the both of them. To distract himself, Jazz turned Prowl's optic over and over in his hands. No matter what way he seemed to turn it, it felt like it was watching him with accusation in its gaze.

Eventually, Prowl came back to consciousness. When his one remaining optic lit up again, it was dim and unfocused from injury and energon loss.

Jazz felt his stare. He turned to the tactician and reached for him. Prowl tensed, waiting for the next assault. Jazz shook his head, revealing the optic he held in his hand. "It's over. No more fightin' for today. Ah just wanna giva ya this now."

There was a fraction of relief in Prowl's gaze. He dared to nod, then grimaced when it hurt.

It took some effort, but the optic was finally jangled back into place, though it wasn't properly set. With every little movement, it rattled in its socket.

"Ratchet will fix that," Jazz said lowly.

Unable to say anything at all, Prowl scarcely nodded.

"Good thing Ah said sorry in advance, huh?" Jazz joked weakly, but neither of them laughed. There was silence, then the saboteur deflated. "There's a reason for this, Ah swear. Ah went through the exact same thing, and Ah probably wondered about the same things you're wondering about now. You're smart, so one way or another, you'll figure out what ya gotta do ta make this stop. When ya figure it out, we'll be able ta move on."

That was little consolation to the tactician, who was in pain _now_.

The saboteur revved. "Ya need ta go ta the med bay."

There was no way that Prowl would be able to move on his own, so Jazz took most of his weight. He did not mind being the crutch that Prowl leaned on. They arranged themselves so that the least amount of injuries were disturbed on either mech. It took much longer for Jazz to adjust their fields to create the dampening field, and even when it was activated, it was imperfect. Both were just too damaged to support a perfect field. Jazz watched Prowl carefully with every move they made. He knew just by looking at the mech that Prowl had heeded his orders, keeping his neural circuits and emotional center on. He also knew Prowl must have been in a lot of pain, but dealt with it impressively well. That would mean a lot for the future.

The hologram of the dojo turned to pixels and fell away. The energon left behind from them stayed on the floor, stained there until a drone came to clean it. The door to the training range hissed open. It was a slow trek through the hall, during which they met no one. An excruciating experience met them in the maintenance corridor where the walls pressed in from all sides. Prowl nearly passed out, depending solely on Jazz to get him through. In the lift that would take them up, they met Tungsten, Wheeljack's tiny pet drone. It squeaked for them, stepping aside and folding into a hoverboard to keep out of Prowl and Jazz's way. When they came to their exit on the floors above, Tungsten automatically followed them out to clean up the trail of energon they left behind.

"This is the story; we were attacked," Jazz said lowly, whispering into Prowl's audio. "A group of Decepticons found us while we were doing the perimeter run. They wanted ta take meh back ta Megatron. Ah got out of there an' left ya behind. Ya fought them off."

A weak rev vibrated Prowl's frame. "No…" He was too weak to look at anything except the ground while Jazz guided him around base. He leaned to the side, letting his head rest against Jazz. "You… stayed. Fought them. …_saved_ me."

Jazz paused, absorbing the words. "Ah saved ya?"

Prowl grimaced, then managed to nod. "Yes. Better… lie."

"Alright."

They continued on their way through Iacon's open courtyards, following the way they had come to keep up the appearance of a botched perimeter run. Their only unusual detail was Tungsten's insistence to keep following them, determinedly cleaning up the energon that spattered on the ground. It must have been an ingrained response in the drone after so long of cleaning up after Wheeljack's accidents. Whatever the case, he was a comical addition to their sad group, squeaking along behind them, content to keep cleaning. Since drones were often ignored by living Cybertronians, only a truly curious bot would ask about the tiny drone's presence.

Red Alert must have seen them on one of his many security cameras because a brief alarm went up. Not for an imminent attack, but a warning bell to get bots' attention. Several Autobots looked up immediately. Some drew their weapons. Jazz shifted Prowl around to drop both their dampening fields so their spark resonances were able to be scanned. The moment they were recognized, a small crowd was rushing forward. More than a few bots were demanding to know what happened. There was anxiousness written on several faceplates, and shockingly enough, some of their concern even seemed to be directed at Jazz. Before any excuse could be given to the crowd of concerned bots, Prowl and Jazz were swept away to the med bay.

Ratchet took one look at the pair given into his care and immediately demanded: _"What in the fragging pit happened?"_

Jazz shrugged. "We were attacked."

"You attacked each other?" Ratchet exclaimed, incredulous. Of course he would immediately think the worst.

"No, _Decepticons_ showed up, half-bit. We fought. Prowl took the brunt, but Ah got both of us out of there," Jazz drawled, irritation lacing his tone. He turned so that Prowl's limp frame came into the fore between them. "Just fix him, would ya? That's what you're _supposed_ ta do."

Ratchet looked as if he wanted to say a whole lot more in that moment, but his function took precedence. He hefted the burden of Prowl's weight and laid the mech upon an empty berth. He made an absent clucking noise as he looked Prowl over from head to toe, after which the tactician was beset with scans to properly assess the damages. With a surreptitious look over his shoulder at Jazz, Ratchet leaned down to Prowl's audio and asked if Ironhide should be summoned to the med bay. Perhaps Jazz needed an escort elsewhere?

With a grunt, Prowl forced himself to shake his head. "Jazz… stays. Saved me."

Forced to believe the explanation for now, though he wasn't at all convinced by it, Ratchet began repairs immediately. While he worked, he cursed and scolded. It was part of his usual ritual, so it was almost a comfort to know he was cursing and swearing. If he wasn't making noise, there would be something to worry about. Prowl's injuries were extensive, though not life-threatening, so it took a significant amount of time for the medic to see to them all. First Aid was called in to assist with the matter.

Jazz watched the meticulous process for a long time. When he was sure he had Prowl's frame memorized from the inside out, he decided to look after his own repairs. He'd never trusted a medic to look after him before, so he'd always treated himself no matter the severity of the wounds. Taking a seat on a nearby berth, he stripped both his arms of their damaged armour and started rewiring. It would take the better part of a joor to complete the task properly on his own, which he was prepared to do. He let himself become distracted by his work. So distracted was he that he did not realize that someone had come to stand in front of him. The toned-down yellow paint belonged to Ratchet, as did the downturned faceplate when Jazz looked up.

"Can Ah help ya?" Jazz drawled, arching an optic ridge. He hadn't realized the medics were done their work on Prowl. A brief scan of the room revealed that First Aid was long gone now.

The medic nodded to Jazz's open arm. "It would be faster if I did that."

Surprised by the offer, Jazz stared. His gaze darted to Prowl, but the tactician was offline, stabilized and resting. With no help on that account, Jazz returned his gaze to Ratchet. It took a moment to assess the Autobot; he was reluctant of his offer, resisting the urge to back down. He obviously did not like Jazz, but there wasn't outright distrust in his optics at the moment.

"My time is valuable, Neutral," Ratchet intoned when Jazz took too long for his liking.

"Haven't ya heard? Ah steal valuable things," Jazz replied, smirking.

"I'm not in the mood for your quirks. I offered to fix your arm- take it or leave it."

"Ah'll take it," Jazz said, holding out his arm. He didn't trust Ratchet, so he watched the rewiring process closely. Never once did the medic make an untoward move. When he was finished, he backed away and leaned against a nearby berth. For long, silent breems, the two mechs sized each other up. Ratchet was the first to relent, giving a sharp shake of his head.

"I have no idea what is going on between the two of you…"

"Nothing is going on," Jazz cut in.

Ratchet rolled his optics. "Like I'd believe that. Something is going on, but I'm not sure I want to know what it is."

"Then don't ask," Jazz replied curtly.

"I'm not asking," Ratchet snorted. "All I know is that I've been a medic a long time, so when I see claw marks in a mech's armour, and I see claws that match on another mech, I can do the math."

Jazz tensed, preparing to do… _something_, even if it meant ripping into Ratchet's mind and stealing some memories.

Ratchet sensed the danger, though he didn't move away. "Don't bother coming after me. As much as I can't believe I'm saying this, I'm not going to tell anyone what you did."

That almost shocked Jazz as much as the offer to help him fix his arms. With narrowed optics, he demanded, "Why?"

The medic pursed his mouthplates, as if the words he was about to say had an awful taste to them. "Prowl usually has a good reason for the things he does, even if no one else understands those reasons. I thought he had finally lost his mind when he first brought you to Iacon, but I'm starting to think he really is as smart as most bots seemed to think he is. I'm not saying I'm beginning to like you or anything, but you're definitely not the same mech you were when you came here."

"Insult meh, why don't ya?" Jazz muttered.

The sides of Ratchet's mouthplates twitched. "You might have beaten the slag out of Prowl for whatever reason, but you brought him back to be repaired. If you meant to kill him, you would have. You've been on this base for a long time and I haven't seen anything worse out of you than you tormenting Mirage- which I think he needs every once in a while anyways. If you were planning to hurt this base, you would have done something by now. As far as I can tell, _something_ is going on between the two of you, and it's important enough to Prowl that he's willing to lie to protect you. If he's willing to go that far and put that much faith in you, then I want to be able to give you a chance."

"_You_ give _meh _a chance?" Jazz wondered suspiciously. This was just getting weirder and weirder. Weren't bots supposed ta get more suspicious when one bot beat the slag out of another? Not more generous. Or maybe Ratchet was just strange like that. He was definitely strange in a lot of other ways.

"It sounds completely unlikely, I know. Just hear me out before you shoot me down," Ratchet said wryly. "If Prowl is willing to go this far for you, then the least I could do is stop thinking about you like a wretched, murdering Decepticon psychopath."

"Gee,_ thanks_," Jazz drawled.

Ratchet snorted. "Like I said, you're different now. If I'm willing to call a truce between you and I, then I want you to give me something in return. Just give me your word that you won't kill him."

Truly, that was the absolute _last_ thing Jazz ever expected out of the medic. He sat for several long moments, stunned beyond belief. If he had been Prowl, his logic circuits would have crashed- luckily, Jazz was not big on using logic, so he mostly ended up stunned.

The saboteur's silence prompted Ratchet to sweeten the deal. "If you give me your word, no one will ever know it's you beating the slag out of Prowl. I'll only say whatever story you give me."

The offer was too good to be true, which is why Jazz didn't like it one bit. His gaze narrowed dangerously on the medic. "Why are ya doing this?"

Ratchet's gaze turned pensive, briefly considering Prowl's resting form. "There's a lot about Prowl that he keeps secret from everyone else. I know a lot of it because I've been treating him for vorns, but he guards himself from everyone else. For some reason, though, he's showed _you_, of all bots, some of the most hated parts of himself. You're the last bot anyone would ever think to confide in, yet Prowl trusts you above any other with his secrets. I think that means something. At the very least, I'm willing to take a chance on it."

Jazz cast his optics to the floor, wishing that Prowl hadn't knocked his visor out so that he could hide his optics. There was a lot to consider in Ratchet's words, and not just his offer. The revelations would have to wait, though. He considered the offer that was being laid before him; an unlikely ally in the Autobot's CMO, someone who would repair the both of them without question and support their alibis. An invaluable service for the foreseeable future. In return, Jazz merely had to resist killing Prowl, which was something he planned on doing anyways. Win-win.

"Ya have mah word," said the saboteur, then dared a smirk for his co-conspirator. "Believe it or not, Ah'm trying ta _help_ him. That's mah goal in the long run, anyways."

Ratchet gave a tired sigh, scrubbing his faceplate with his hand. "Don't ask me why, but I believe you. If you can somehow help him when I haven't been able to, more power to you." He popped away from the berth he'd been leaning against. He stretched, cracking armour back into place. Once done, he fixed the silver mech with a measuring stare. "It's going to be a long night, so you might as well stay here. I'll be in my office getting some work done. Keep an optic on Prowl for me."

Jazz nodded his acquiescence.

Ratchet turned on his heel and retreated.

Jazz glanced to the side, watching as Prowl laid there quietly, recovering slowly. The storm-grey mech might not realize it, but he was much luckier than Jazz had ever been. There were many Autobots on this base that cared greatly for him, even if he himself did not know or understand it. He was not _alone_ as Jazz had always been. That would help him through his training.

Ratchet returned from his office a moment later, a small cube of energon in his hand. Surprisingly, he offered it to Jazz. "You look like you could use this."

"Thank you," said the saboteur, accepting the cube.

The medic donned a crooked half-smile, as if he couldn't quite believe he had just given a cube of his best hidden energon to someone like Jazz. With a private laugh at himself, he returned to his office. His door was left open a crack in case anything happened.

Jazz considered the cube of energon he now held. He took a sip, appreciating the quality. He would have preferred high-grade, but that might have been a little much to ask for. He took another sip and came to a curious conclusion about his life. For the first time in a long time, it seemed that he was not alone anymore either.


	16. Chapter 16

Oh my goodness, the response to the last chapter was so amazing! You guys honestly almost put me in happy tears with your thoughtfulness and consideration for the effort it takes to write this story. To tell you the truth, I was inspired so much by the great response from everyone that writing this chapter took almost not effort at all. Granted, the content of this chapter isn't particularly too complex, but everyone's head needs a break every once in a while, right? =P I had a couple of giggles writing this and I hope that I can inspire some smothered laughter and maybe a snort or two from a few of you. Happy readings! ^_^

Mt dearest and sincerest thanks to the reviewers of the last chapter: **Vivienne Granger, PrancingTiger86, animelover1993, Dawn101, Kai-Chan94, Faecat, Optimus Bob, femme4prime, BoredTech, Jinx, FoghornLeghorn83, renegadewriter8, CNightJoy, Daklog73, Reader, Sideslip, 1bloodtempest, Midnight Marquis, Uniasus, kathy3meme, WolvesFire77, Got Buttermilk, Darkeyes17, SavvyEnigma, Phoebe Turner, Zea T, smoking caramels, Christina, Gatekat, Fiera Sabre, Peacewish, aughoti, Lecidre, Anon**, and **chaitea16**. You are all too wonderful for words~

Special shout outs to **1bloodtempest** for reading this chapter a few days ago when I had the preliminary draft done~ You're such a sweetheart! Second shout out to **Lecidre**, who I owe more gratitude to than I can possibly express in words. Your review spree stunned me to speechlessness~ Thank you so much for being such an amazing person!

**Chapter 16**

The door to the med bay hissed open in the early joors of the morning, shortly after the first shift of the orn began. Smokescreen stepped in and cast his optics around. In his immediate vicinity was Ratchet, who was walking by with his arms full of medical supplies. The moment they caught each other's optics, Ratchet stopped and arched an optic ridge at the interloper.

"You don't look like you need to be here," observed the medic, his tone as flat as his stare.

"The hospitality around this place is amazing as always, Ratchet," Smokescreen drawled.

"I haven't recharged in two orns," Ratchet huffed, shifting his armload around. "If you're looking pleasantries, I suggest you pull your head out of your exhaust pipe and go somewhere else."

Smokescreen rolled his optics. Like most Autobots, he was accustomed to Ratchet's moods. Instead of getting into a battle of wits with the irritable mech, he asked, "Where is he?"

"Where else? In his little office setup in the ICU," Ratchet said, jerking his head in the right direction. The back wall of the med bay was a clear crystal window that led into the ICU, giving medics and patients in the med bay a clear view of the room beyond. Prowl, however, was lurking in one of the far corners where he could not be seen, and preferably not be disturbed. "I can only hope you're taking him away."

"I'm just here to talk to him." Smokescreen let his gaze linger on the crystal window before refocusing on Ratchet. The tactician's stare was distinctly wry. "Refresh my memory, Ratchet- what was it this time? Another so-called accident?"

Ratchet set his supplies down on the nearest berth, crossing his arms across his chest. This was not the first time that he had been questioned over Prowl's wellbeing; there was not an orn that went by without someone coming along to see if they could trip him up with questions and find out what was really going on. Smokescreen was, by far, among the most persistent of his questioners and the most vocal about his disbelief regarding the whole situation. Instead of tripping up, the pestering only served to make Ratchet better at repeating the stories given to him. Too bad the excuses he was forced to give were quickly becoming more and more ridiculous with every incident that brought Prowl to the med bay.

"It was a driving accident," Ratchet said smoothly, his expression entirely unperturbed.

Smokescreen looked on with pure incredulity. "Really, Ratchet?"

"Really."

The tactician remained unconvinced, and rightly so. "Prowl is among the best drivers I know and you expect me to believe he had a driving accident while running a perimeter patrol with Jazz?" He gestured to himself in exasperation. "Do I look stupid to you?"

"Only every time I look at you," Ratchet replied with a smile.

"Forget I asked," Smokescreen sighed. He wasn't going to get anything out of the medic today. "Look, I'm just going to go in and speak with him. You can go back to doing whatever it was you were doing."

"You mean enjoying my peaceful existence before you walked in?"

"Like I said, forget I asked." With a quick shake of his head, Smokescreen quickly bypassed the medic and headed for the crystal door leading into the ICU. Like most bots, he had an acute sense of dread every time he walked into the ICU; there were usually only two reasons for a bot to be in this part of the med bay; either he was in serious condition, or he was visiting someone who was on the edge of life or death. To Smokescreen's relief, he had a tertiary option now- visiting his commander in his new auxiliary office.

As expected, Prowl was sitting in the far corner of the ICU. He was positioned out of the way of the main activity of the room, set up with a basic desk, a comfortable chair to accommodate his healing frame, and the usual accoutrements a bot would need to see to office duties such as a computer, stacks of data pads, and several of his filing cabinets from his actual office. Silence reigned in the room, broken only by the rapid clicking of Prowl's fingers across the keyboard. He did not look away from the screen as Smokescreen approached.

Smokescreen cringed as he got a good look at his commander. His injuries were a few orns old now, partially healed but still a little gruesome. His faceplate was scarred down the side, one of his audios sitting at a crooked angle. His doorwings had been removed the orn he had been brought in, sent to Wheeljack for proper repairs. He looked slightly lopsided and naked with great portions of his armour removed. Smokescreen knew better than to say anything about the mech's appearance; Prowl usually found no humour in what he looked like.

"Prowl," he intoned, lacing his hands behind his back and rocking back and forth on his heels.

The clicking of the keys of the keyboard continued for a short moment after the address, then abruptly stopped. Pale optics turned up from the screen.

"Smokescreen."

Just as abruptly, Prowl's attention returned to the screen. Astroseconds later, the rapid clicking of keys started up again. A small grunt sounded as Prowl adjusted himself, jarring his sensitive back. Even on a good orn, Prowl's grasp of politeness could a little lacking. In his current condition, he could be downright brusque.

There was no point in waiting for an invitation that would never come, so Smokescreen sat down on the guest chair in front of Prowl's desk. The subjects he wanted to broach were awkward for him to consider, so he didn't speak right away. He looked at his hands. Twiddled his thumbs. Prowl continued to ignore him with practised ease. Impatience finally overrode the awkwardness, spurring Smokescreen to interrupt his commander a second time.

"This is your fifth time being in here, Prowl," Smokescreen pointed out with no shortage of admonishment.

"Congratulations on your ability to count," Prowl replied.

It took a moment for Smokescreen to wonder if his commander had just made a joke. Perhaps he was staying in Jazz's company too long and a bit of the saboteur's questionable personality was now rubbing off on Prowl. It was best not to linger too long on the thought. With a shake of his head, Smokescreen dismissed the matter and carried on with his original train of thought:

"_Five times_, Prowl. Five times you've come in here with the slag beaten out of you." He held up a hand, but he only had three fingers and a thumb, so he held up a finger on the other hand too to make the proper visual for _five_. "That's way too many times to find yourself in here by mere coincidence of circumstance. You're in here so damn often that you have your own little office back here. Don't you think that's a little ridiculous?"

"Would you rather I neglect my duties while I'm recovering? I could leave all of this work for you," Prowl said, raising an optic ridge. He did not stop typing.

Smokescreen's mouthplates pursed. "…no, I wouldn't want all your work left for me. That's not what I'm trying to get at here." He sighed, scrubbing his faceplate with his hand. He was going to have to use a new tactic in this, because what he was currently trying definitely wasn't working. He cycled air through his vents, then reached across the desk to grasp one of Prowl's forearms, stopping the mech from typing. Their gazes met. Prowl seemed to see the need in Smokescreen's optics, so he sat back and gave his second-in-command his full attention.

"We've known each other a long time…" Smokescreen began.

"We were brought online together and worked in the same precinct until the war began, and even after joining the Autobots, we were stationed on the same bases, so it is safe to say that we have known each other for our entire lives," Prowl replied easily.

"We just can't escape each other," Smokescreen joked lightly, but quickly sobered. "I do have a point with this, really. I came here for a reason. It's weird trying to bring this up with you, especially since we've never actually had a spark-to-spark before. Just hear me out, okay? And don't freak out."

"I'm listening," Prowl assured.

Smokescreen revved pensively. "We've known each other a very long time, and, well… we were brought online as part of the same set, so you're practically my brother…"

"You do treat me with a fair amount of affectionate familiarity, similar to that of siblings," Prowl pointed out.

"Yeah," Smokescreen sighed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"I don't mind it," Prowl intoned, the corner of his mouthplates twitching up a tiny degree. "Your affection has never impeded your duties, and it is… _welcome_, even if I am not quite comfortable in returning the same affections in the same degree. However, if you think you can use sibling familiarity to shirk on your duties more than you already do, you will be sorely mistaken."

"Duly noted," Smokescreen replied.

The curve at the edges of Prowl's mouthplates widened another fraction until he flinched in discomfort. He then resumed his usual neutral expression, which was far less painful to maintain. "I doubt these pleasantries are part of what you came here to speak with me about. Since you mentioned that the subject you were addressing was awkward, I can only assume that you're here again about my current condition."

"Your powers of deduction are always astounding," Smokescreen chuckled, only slightly sarcastic but mostly well-meaning.

"It's elementary, my dear brother," Prowl replied, not at all phased by the sarcasm.

Finding himself far more relaxed than he had been on any previous occasion he had come to see Prowl, Smokescreen sat back in his seat with a vague smile on his faceplate. He consulted his clasped hands briefly, wondering where to begin. "You're my brother, right? That means we're family, and family looks out for family, right?"

"That is generally how it works, as far as I can tell," Prowl replied.

Smokescreen smothered a quiet laugh, nodding. "So, we're family and we look out for each other, and that's a great segue for me to point out that I'm concerned for you. I'm concerned as your brother and as your second-in-command. "

"Are you now?"

"Yes."

Intrigued, Prowl arched an optic ridge. "And how are you concerned for me?" Not that his current physical condition wasn't cause for concern enough. He knew that Smokescreen was anxious about that, as he had expressed his opinion on the matter a few times, so there was no point bringing it up again. There must be a new concern on the list.

Smokescreen hesitated before answering, wanting to consider his words carefully before he said anything of the matter.

Prowl leaned back in his own chair and patiently waited for whatever was going to be said. He had an idea of what it was going to be, so his concern for the matter was minimal. He was perfectly aware that this was his fifth time being brought to the med bay. It would be unreasonable not to surmise that bots were worried over his recent behaviour. More than a few commanders had come to question him, voicing their concern. Prime came in every few orns to check on him. Smokescreen came like clockwork to see him. Not many had bothered to comment on Jazz aloud, but Prowl could read them easily enough. They assumed it was Jazz torturing him, which they were essentially right. However, the beatings were by mutual agreement- not that anyone would ever learn of that. His training was between himself and Jazz; it was no one else's business. He was still capable of carrying out the mental side of his duties, even if he was physically incapacitated. His ability to carry out his appointed duties should be the extent of anyone's concern. His personal life was his own.

Soon, Prowl would figure out what it was that Jazz was trying to beat into him (or out of him, depending on the session). Once that mystery was solved, that particular part of the lessons would end- or, at least, Prowl _hoped_ they would end. When the necessary trips to the med bay ended, Prowl would no longer be of concern to anyone. Jazz would remain under severe suspicion, but that was not a new condition.

Smokescreen heaved a heavy sigh and looked up. "Is this a cry for help?"

"…I beg your pardon?"

"_This_, Prowl," Smokescreen pressed, gesturing up and down at Prowl to incorporate his whole frame. "This whole thing you have going on with getting the slag beaten out of you. It was easy to pass off the first time as a real attack, and maybe the second as stepping on an active mine. But the third time? The _fourth_? Last time you said you fell down the stairs! Who in the pit is going to believe that? Especially when every time you're hurt, Jazz is the one to bring you in. So here I am, sincerely asking if this is a cry for help. Do you need to talk to someone?"

"What are you going on about?" Prowl demanded, rearing back.

Smokescreen continued, the floodgates open for his concerns to tumble out unimpeded. "Is the pressure of being the Head Tactical Adviser getting to you? Because if you are being overwhelmed, then it's okay to take a step back. No one is going to blame you for having a bit of a meltdown over it. It's a high-stress function that's bound to get to anybody. You don't need to keep torturing yourself to deal with the stress. You like bottling things up, I know that, but there's no need to suffer in silence like you are. There's a better way."

"Please don't tell me this is supposed to be an intervention," Prowl groaned.

"It is if it has to be," Smokescreen replied determinedly.

"Primus, it doesn't have to be," Prowl sighed in exasperation. He pinched the metal bridge between his optics. "This really, _really_ doesn't have to be."

"If you'd just explain what was going on, then no one would have to be so concerned," Smokescreen reasoned. "The excuses that you're feeding us just aren't cutting it. This time it was a driving accident. Last time, you supposedly fell down the stairs. What will it be next time? You walked into a wall?"

"My personal business is no one's concern," Prowl informed. He made a mental note to discuss with Jazz and Ratchet the option of formulating more believable excuses.

"Your business is our business when you're constantly being brought to the med bay looking like you were dragged through the pit and back," Smokescreen countered. "Everyone's worried, Prowl. _I'm_ worried. Can't you just tell us what's going on? Maybe we can help you."

Prowl cast his gaze to the floor. "It's _personal._"

Smokescreen drew back, looking hurt. "It's personal, but Jazz is involved, right? Tell me that much, Prowl. I can pretty much guess on my own, but can't you trust me enough to tell me if it's Jazz who's doing this to you?"

Prowl flinched. "It is Jazz, but there's a reason for it."

"You won't tell me the reason, will you?" Smokescreen sighed.

"No, never."

Smokescreen deflated. They lapsed into awkward silence again. Prowl was tempted to continue his work again, but knew that it would be impolite to do so, so he remained in his seat watching his brother. While Smokescreen was an excellent tactician and well-practiced at hiding his emotions, he did not bother masking his feelings today. He was clearly concerned about Prowl, and there was no small measure of discomfort affecting him. The dark blue tactician gathered his thoughts once more, becoming increasingly restless.

"This personal business you have with Jazz…" he began quietly, unable to make optic contact. "Is it… are you… what I mean to say is… well, damn, this is really hard to ask…"

The more Smokescreen fumbled with the words, the more Prowl felt foreboding over what those words could possibly be.

Smokescreen glanced up for a moment before returning his gaze to his hands, which he was wringing in his lap. "Are the rumours true, Prowl? I mean, for the longest time, I didn't bother listening to them because they were absolute slag, but I don't know anymore…"

"Rumours about _what_, exactly?" Prowl growled warily.

"You and Jazz, are you… _you know_? I mean, it's okay if you are… Well, okay, maybe it's not 'okay', per se, because you're _you_ and he's _him_, but wouldn't it be better if you weren't sneaking around about it? Sure, you somehow got Ratchet on your side, but this is some really unusual stuff going on here…" The wringing of his hands increased. It wasn't that he was a prude; Cybertronian culture was remarkably open in regards to intimate partners. But Prowl and Jazz… The mere thought of it reached levels of awkward that were unmatched by any humiliation any one bot could ever suffer.

Prowl had a pretty good idea of what he was being asked now, and did not like it one bit. In fact, he now felt a little sick. He was so stunned that he could not summon himself to cut off Smokescreen's stammering before the mech managed to embarrass them both.

"I'm not going to judge you for your personal choices or whatever, 'cause I know that some bots have different preferences for intimate liaisons, but from you? Honestly, I never would have expected it. You're just so... quiet and self-contained. I guess doing stuff like this is just a way for you break away from your inhibitions, huh?" Smokescreen revved, looking anywhere but at Prowl. "I can accept all of that, really, but when it starts to interfere with your work like this, then maybe it's time to tone it down. I can totally get why you chose Jazz to be with you. He probably makes a great partner for this whole sadomasochism thing since he's crazy as slag, but I think you're taking this crazy kink scene to a whole new level-."

Prowl buried his head in his hands. "Stop talking."

"But-."

"No."

"Prowl-."

"_Smokescreen." _Warning laced that one spoken designation. It was vehement enough to make the dark blue mech subside into his chair, intensely uncomfortably now. Prowl continued to wallow in his private humiliation, so much so that he could not bring his faceplate up from his palms. He should have seen something like this coming. Perhaps not _this_ particular scenario, but one very similar to it. Autobots were notorious for their habitual gossiping. There was no way that they wouldn't start coming up with ridiculous possibilities between himself and Jazz.

When Prowl was sure he could look his brother/second-in-command in the optic without feeling the need to dig a grave and jump in it, he took a deep drag of air and clearly said:

"I am going to say this once, and only once, so please listen carefully."

Smokescreen tensed at the growling threat in his commander voice. "I'm listening."

"_Good."_ Prowl's optics glinted like chips of ice. "I am _**not**_ involved in any type of sadomasochistic activities with Jazz. I have never, and will never be involved in sadomasochistic activities with Jazz or anyone else. My condition has nothing to do with activities where pleasure is derived from violence."

Smokescreen opened his mouthplates to say something.

"No, let me finish," Prowl ground out. "This is the most important part: I will never,_ ever_ be intimately involved with Jazz in any kind of way that may or may not include a fetish scenario. I am not interested in sadomasochism. I am not interested in any type of kink. I am certainly not interested in Jazz. He and I work together and that is it. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal clear, sir," Smokescreen mumbled.

"Good."

A long, drawn out moment of silence hung between them when neither bot had anything to say to the other. Finally, Smokescreen managed to speak:

"What am I supposed to tell the others? If you're going to keep doing what you're doing, the excuses you have now aren't going to cut it," he pointed out. His gaze seemed permanently affixed to the floor.

Prowl sighed sharply, propping his elbows on his desk and lacing his fingers together. He contemplated his predicament for several breems. It seemed he had no choice but to reveal what he was doing with Jazz, if only to prevent the spread of such ridiculous rumours. Who in the pit would believe that he and Jazz were… together… doing stuff… ? A shudder passed down Prowl's spinal column.

After much careful deliberation, the Head Tactical Advisor said, "You may inform the others that I am undergoing specialized training, courtesy of Jazz. It is violent training, but we engage in it by mutual agreement." He grimaced as he considered the word choice. "That mutual agreement has nothing to do with pleasure."

Smokescreen flinched at the sharpness of Prowl's toned. "I gathered as much, sir."

Prowl gave a curt jerk of his head. "When my training is over, I will be a stronger and more capable warrior for the Autobots."

"And if you happen to _die_ before you complete this so-called 'training'?"

"Then I die." But he trusted in Jazz's promise not to kill him, so he worried little over the possibility of having his spark extinguished.

Smokescreen grimaced, not like the prospect of Prowl's death at all. He had no choice but to accept, though. He rose from his seat and offered a shallow bow. "I'll tell the others what you told me; that it's training. You can only hope that it will be enough to satisfy them."

"It will have to be enough," Prowl said quietly.

Smokescreen nodded, moving on to say in a matter-of-fact tone, "After I tell them, I am going to purge my memory banks of this conversation. I don't want to live the rest of my life knowing I had a conversation with you involving the words 'kink' 'fetish' or 'sadomasochism'. That is asking too much of my sanity."

He promptly turned on his heel and left the ICU. He did not even spare a word for Ratchet before he left the med bay entirely.

Prowl stared after his brother with a mix of mortification and horror. He had been just as uncomfortable with the exchange as Smokescreen had been. In fact, if his Emotion Maximum Output condition was to be believed, then he felt his humiliation a thousand times more than Smokescreen will ever be able to comprehend. And even worse for Prowl, he did not have the option of deleting the conversation.

Ratchet appeared in the doorway of the ICU, looking like he was trying very hard not to laugh. Much to Prowl's increased horror, he realized that the medic must have heard every word of his exchange with Smokescreen.

"You knew those rumours were going around, didn't you?" Prowl growled, accusation in his glare.

"I might have heard a thing or two," shrugged the medic, his smirk curving wider.

"And you never bothered to try cutting them off? At the very least, you could have warned me of them!"

The medic rolled his optics. "The Autobots are going to believe what they want to believe. Besides, it was none of my business. I promised to repeat any story you and Jazz gave me, but I never said I'd give a damn if no one believed me."

Prowl groaned, dropped his faceplate into his hands again. "If they hear of my conversation with Smokescreen, it will only make matters worse. You will tell _no one_ of this meeting, Ratchet."

"Is that an order?" Ratchet asked, an optic ridge arching incredulously.

_"Please."_

"Alright, fine. No one will ever hear from me what happened here today," Ratchet replied, then looked away to laugh. "I can only imagine what Jazz will do when he hears the rumours."

"Right now, I don't want to think about it."


	17. Chapter 17

Hey everybody, here's the next chapter. Big shout out to **1bloodtempest** for reading this chapter and chatting with me about it. I do so love talking with a reader and hearing their opinions on matters. ^_^

My sincerest thanks to all of my reviewers of the last chapter:** PrancingTiger86, Gatekat, Bluebird Soaring, Got Buttermilk, Jinx, Midnight Marquis, smoking caramels, SwedishDragon, JenEvan, optimus prime 007, Marinelife37, CNightJoy, nameless reviewer, 1bloodtempest, BoredTech, renegadewriter8, Vivienne Granger, FoghornLeghorn83, animelover1993, Kai-Chan94, Fiera Sabre, Dawn101, Christina, Anon, Peacewish, UsagiLovesDuochan, KrysSaiyan, Sideslip, Chloo, Daklog73, chaitea16, Lecidre, phoebe turner, ChaosGarden**, and **Uniasus**. No matter the time of day or night, you guys put a smile on my face with your thoughtfulness, kindness, and ideas about the characters. You're all amazing~

Read, Review, and Enjoy~!

**Chapter 17**

Not for the first time in the last couple of joors, Jazz glanced up from his work to stare at the gatecrasher in his makeshift office. She hadn't done a single useful thing since she'd walked in. Actually, she was the _opposite_ of useful. She was lazy and taking up space. It was starting to get annoying. Doing slag like that was okay for him because he could do it with style; anyone else who tried getting away with slag like that tended to be an irritation.

"Shouldn't ya be doing something?" Jazz asked, arching an optic ridge.

Firestar looked up from her previous distraction of doing nothing, her frame artistically draped across her chair for best viewing quality. Her optic ridges arched pointedly at him as she asked, "You want me to interface with you? That's something fun I could be doing." Her gaze wandered to Jazz's interface panel, the invitation in her gaze undisguised and unmistakable.

Knowing her talents, Jazz considered the offer for a moment. He liked interfacing for pleasure with Firestar because she was a Kaon pleasure bot; they were notoriously vicious creatures. Not quite a challenge to him, but she provided adequate entertainment. However, now was not the time for distractions. "Maybe later," he said.

"Too bad," Firestar shrugged, hardly perturbed by the matter. She went back to counting dust particles in the air.

Jazz briefly rubbed the bridge between his optics, sorely tempted to throw the femme out. Did she even realize how much danger she was in the longer she sat in his company doing nothing? She probably did have an idea of the danger and, being the femme that she was, she probably got off on it. Disgusted, Jazz asked, "Aren't your little pets worried that you're spending so much time with meh?"

"My pets? You must mean Inferno and Red Alert, right?" The femme tossed her head back and laughed. "What they don't know won't hurt them. I love them and all, but they won't stop me from doing my job."

"You're not a pleasure bot anymore- in case ya forgot. Ya don't gotta pleasure meh," Jazz pointed out. "Plus, you're annoying meh right now."

"Some programs die hard. My annoying programs die the hardest," Firestar replied cheerfully. She then slanted him a sly look. "Besides, who says that my pleasure function was the job I was talking about?"

Jazz's gaze turned shrewd as he watched the femme over the top of his desk. "Elita One sent you?"

"What do you think?" Firestar laughed. "As much as I want to say it's your stunning personality that keeps me around, my commander's orders take precedence over your charm." She started to examine the tips of her short, needle-like claws. "She and Chromia have a special interest in you. Not really a surprise, I guess- if you want to believe the rumours going around. Everyone wants a piece of that action, if you know what I mean." She cast him a sidelong glance, bobbing her optic ridges.

She was referring to the rumours between Jazz and Prowl. The colourful, slightly disturbing, and completely untrue rumours the Autobots twittered about whenever they got the chance, because they were just that bored. There were some orns that Jazz was partially entertained by them, but mostly they just pissed him off because they were something he couldn't control. He levelled a narrowed look in Firestar's direction.

"Ah'm _training_ him, ya vile little femme."

"Right, _training_. Like I haven't used that as code for something before," she snorted. She was obviously one to believe the fetish rumours. And even if she didn't believe them, she probably daydreamed about them. Firestar was a slightly messed up kind of bot.

"If ya think Ah'm only getting mah kink on with Prowl, why the pit are ya stickin' around here spying on meh?" Jazz asked tightly. "Ya ain't gonna learn nothing from meh."

"Oh, I'm sure you could teach me a thing or two if I stick around long enough," Firestar replied playfully. "But honestly? I don't think Elita One gives a slag about the rumours. She just wants to get to know you- what you're doing, what you're you're planning. Whatever revs her engine." She shrugged unconcernedly. "I'm just following orders."

"If Elita One wants ta get ta know meh, she knows where mah office is," Jazz pointed out dryly.

"Not that you're ever in here very much," Firestar countered.

"True," Jazz shrugged, not really considering it his problem if others had trouble finding him. His office- well, it was a cage without the bars. He'd been given basic supplies; a desk, two chairs, a computer, and filing cabinets. It was so plain. So normal, average, and boring… How could a room like that contain someone like Jazz? He'd never been given an office with the Decepticons. In fact, he'd never even had to write reports for the damned slaggers. If he had something important to say, he generally went straight to Megatron and said it. The thought of being in an office, writing reports, being so domestic… it _bothered_ him. And it wasn't just the domestic part he disliked. It was the isolation.

He worked better in high-traffic areas where there was always noise and activity- like in the courtyards or recreation rooms. If he was looking for quiet company, then he'd join Prowl in the Head Tactical Advisor's office. It was a quirk he refused to admit to, but Prowl had been right all those orns ago when he said Jazz did not deal with isolation well. His mind constantly needed stimulation, constantly needed movement and white noise surrounding him, or he'd drive himself crazy with his own thoughts. Even now, in his current office, it was too quiet for his liking and Firestar was failing to provide adequate distraction for his increasingly frazzled nerves.

"Can't ya _do_ anything?" Jazz complained to his company.

"I said I'd interface with you," Firestar shrugged.

"And Ah said maybe later. If you're gonna ta take up space, do something _useful_."

Firestar continued to inspect her claws. "Define 'useful'."

"Decode this for meh." He didn't give her much of a choice, since he threw the data pad at her. She caught it before it hit her in the side of the head. A little decoding would be no trouble for her.

The femme perused the data pad, then made a face. "Yuck, decoding. Do I have to? I hate doing this for my own division."

"You're going to do it whether ya like it or not," Jazz said, letting his claws fall back to writing up his work. He didn't even have to look at the keyboard to do it. He arched an optic ridge at the femme. "Ya wanna know why you'll do it?"

"Why?" Firestar asked, pouting.

"Because if ya piss meh off, Ah can hide your dead frame in a place where no one will ever find ya."

"That is a very convincing reason," she said, suddenly laughing. Unlike a normal Autobot, she wasn't afraid. Strange thing that she was, she was a little aroused. "You'd do it, too- wouldn't you? Kill me and hide my frame, I mean. You'd do it for giggles."

"In a sparkbeat," Jazz informed.

Strangely, more laughter came from the femme, her optics sparkling. "Let it never be said that you're a boring mech," she said, grinning.

"Ah try not ta be."

Firestar sighed happily. "Primus, I hope you never go away. Things have been so much better around here ever since you came."

A comment like that was enough to get Jazz to make a typo on his report. He glared at the screen, backspaced, and corrected the mistake. He then stared at Firestar. _"Better?"_

Firestar didn't even blink. She sprawled out on her chair again and got as comfortable as she dared, getting to work on decoding the data that had been assigned to her. Without looking up, she said- "Yeah, better. You know… like things haven't been so _boring_ around here. I hate boring things."

Jazz arched an optic ridge. "So Ah'm an aesthetic improvement?"

"You could say that," the femme shrugged.

"Ah'm not sure if Ah'm flattered or not."

"Be flattered," Firestar said. She didn't look up from her work, but she did smile broadly "If you're flattered, it means you won't kill me."

Jazz snorted, considering killing her just to have some silence. Then he reconsidered, because he wouldn't like the silence at all. He let himself return to his own work and allowed Firestar to work uninterrupted. To her credit, she actually was working. They managed to get through several silent breems before a particular curiosity of Jazz's drove him to glance up once more to examine his company. As a femme, Firestar was built sleek and quick. Her design had distinct Decepticon elements to it, but the overall frame was Autobot. Jazz knew her opinion of the Autobots as a whole- which was not a very flattering opinion- and yet she stayed. The idea of it seemed strange.

Firestar sensed the attention directed her way, looking up.

Jazz leaned forward, bracing his arms on the ledge of his desk. "Tell meh, if ya hate it so much around here, why'd ya become an Autobot?"

The femme honestly considered the question before answering, "I wouldn't leave Red Alert or Inferno. I love them too much for that."

"You _love_ them?" It was hard not to let a bit of incredulity slip into his voice.

Firestar laughed. "Crazy, I know, but it's true. Even someone like me can fall in love."

"Ah didn't think ya were programmed for it," Jazz drawled.

"I wasn't, but I learned. It was hard not to learn to love Inferno and Red Alert," the femme replied easily. "They helped get me out of Kaon and helped me get into Security Response in Axiom Nexus. I owe them everything, so here I am. I'm an Autobot because they're Autobots." She fiddled with her data pad, her smile softening. "Love makes you do stupid things."

"That's a stupid reason," Jazz said flatly.

"Don't be a hypocrite," the femme admonished playfully.

"_Hypocrite?"_ He arched an incredulous optic ridge.

"Oh, come on!" Firestar exclaimed. She sat up in her chair the proper way and leaned forward, her Cheshire grin stretched wide. "You're kidding me, right? You came here because of Prowl! You're just as bad as I am! And if you think otherwise, you're either a major hypocrite or you're lying to yourself."

"And who says it's not for some other reason?" Jazz growled. "Perhaps Ah really am plotting ta kill this base an' Prowl was mah ticket in here." Honestly, the longer he staged this conversation with Firestar, the more that the option of killing the base was becoming appealing.

"Yeah, right. I'll believe that when rainbow smoke comes out my exhaust pipe," replied the femme. "Everyone knows you came here because of Prowl, even if no one would dare say it out loud with you in the room since they're scared to death of you."

"And yet ya keep runnin' your mouthplates," Jazz pointed out through his own gritted mouthplates.

"I'm special," Firestar laughed. "I wasn't programmed to love and wasn't programmed to fear. Learned to love, but still working on the fear."

"Ah'd love ta help with that," Jazz growled.

Firestar chose to ignore the threat, much to her own peril. She pointed one sharp finger at him. "You. Are. Here. Because. Of. _Prowl_."

Jazz took a deep drag of air in through his vents, calmly cycled it, then let it out again. He met Firestar's impish optics and calmly stated, "Firestar, Ah suggest ya put your affairs in order, because Ah'm gonna string ya up by your ankles and torture ya ta death."

"Oh, well, um… can you wait until I finish decoding this data pad for you?" Firestar asked politely.

"Sounds reasonable." Jazz agreed. No need to make more work for himself by having to hide her frame and then finish the work he'd originally tasked her with. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, both of them working diligently. Jazz doubled tasked, working on his reports and his scheme to get rid of Firestar. He actually had a very nice plan all laid out for her when there came panicked knocking at the door. A quick scan revealed Red Alert and Inferno on the other side. When an immediate invite was not extended for them to enter, Red Alert began to panic out loud.

"_Firestar? Firestar! Answer us! I know you're in there! I saw the femme division's roster!"_ The knocking ceased as the Security Director took a step back. _"Oh Primus, he's probably killed and dissected her by now! Inferno, knock down the door! Knock it down now!" _

"_If I knock it down, he'll probably kill us, too,"_ Inferno drawled. _"Besides, I feel her spark resonance in there. She's fine." _

"_He could have her unconscious and is taking her apart piece by piece even as we speak!"_ Red Alert hissed.

"Ah can hear ya just fine in here," Jazz announced loudly with no small amount of irritation.

"And I'm just fine, guys! He hasn't dissected me yet!" Firestar sang cheerfully. She cast an impish gaze in Jazz's direction. "You might as well let them in or they're only going to cause a bigger scene."

Jazz's mouthplates curled in distaste. "Come in," he ordered, releasing the lock on the door. Immediately, two bright red mechs tumbled into the room.

Inferno was the first to see Firestar; his smile was warm and genuine when he saw she was unharmed. He gave Red Alert a hearty slap to the back for the mech's unnecessary panicking. "See? She's just fine. Isn't that right, Firestar?"

"I've been having the nicest time hanging out with my best buddy Jazz," Firestar said as she slid to her feet and went to her mechs. She slid her arms around Inferno and nuzzled his faceplate, then did the same for Red Alert, who eagerly rubbed his faceplate to hers while he scanned her to make sure she was alright.

"We were worried," Red Alert sighed, hugging the femme tight. "The moment I saw that you had been scheduled to, well…" he shot a furtive glance in Jazz's direction. "You know, scheduled to be _here_, I got Inferno and came right here. If anything had happened…"

"You are so sweet," Firestar drawled, snuggling her little spazy bot. "But I can handle myself just fine, thank you. Jazz wouldn't have done anything to me anyways, would you Jazz?"

"Ah was gonna kill her before ya showed up," said the saboteur.

Red Alert stared in horror, and then twitched.

"And that would be our cue to leave," Inferno intoned brightly, ushering Firestar and Red Alert from the office.

"No, wait, I'm assigned here for the shift!" Firestar squawked, wriggling away. "Chromia will whoop my aft if I skip out."

"You are officially excused from duty by permission of the Director of Security," Red Alert immediately piped in.

"Now if only you would do that for shifts I don't want," Firestar huffed.

The trio were gone shortly after, but Jazz's office was far from devoid of company. Staring at the empty doorway, the saboteur called out to the mech lurking just out of sight.

"Blackhawk."

The Special Operations commander stepped into the doorway. He raised his hands in mock-surrender. "You caught me."

"Ah take it that ya orchestrated this little fiasco?" Jazz drawled.

"How else would I have been able to talk to you alone?"

"You're diabolical," said the saboteur, which he meant as a compliment... mostly.

Blackhawk inclined his head, clearly flattered. "All it took was a little suggestion for Red Alert to review the rosters, and he did the rest." The Special Ops commander did not come into the room even as the door stayed open as an invite. The closest he came to entering was to lean into the doorway, peering in with a look of curiosity and calculation. He took inventory, taking into account every object that could be used as a weapon. He was too smart to walk into a room that small with a mech as dangerous as Jazz already in it.

Jazz leaned back in his chair, observing his new company. Not that tall, built compact, the armour smooth against his frame without any excess horns or spikes. His paint was dull black, non-reflective, and entirely unimpressive. His optics were the only interesting detail about him; one dark blue, the other nearly white. His accent was audibly interesting, but not extraordinary. Blackhawk's personnel file was equally bland. He had the appropriate credentials for his function; infiltration, data hacking and manipulation, and some impressive short-range weapon skills. He ran his division like a well-oiled machine. He had a handful of positive write-ups. No negative ones. There was nothing written about his past before the Autobots.

Jazz gestured vaguely in the air. "Ya said ya wanted ta talk ta meh alone?"

"Yes, I did." Blackhawk stepped aside, motioning to the hall. "Would you mind walking and talking with me?"

"Not at all," Jazz replied, glad for the excuse to leave his office.

He came into the hall and let Blackhawk indicate the direction they would go in. They walked side by side at a moderate pace, their frames keeping an exact distance from each other. They did not touch, not even accidentally, and they did not look at each other while they walked. While Blackhawk had invited Jazz to talk in the hall, the Autobot said nothing for a while and neither did Jazz. Keeping company with each other wasn't exactly awkward, but it wasn't comfortable either. They were both on guard. Jazz found himself wishing that his replacement visor would come in so that he would have something to cover his optics with; without it, he felt unnaturally exposed.

Blackhawk revved quietly, clasping his hands behind his back. "Are you managing your consultant duties well?" he wondered, his tone politely curious.

"Well enough," Jazz replied. Being a consultant for the Autobots was among one of the easiest functions he had ever had to handle. He reviewed important material concerning the war effort and made suggestions where he saw fit. If there was a bot or a team of bots good for a mission, he voiced his opinion on it. He knew the Decepticons well enough, so if suspicions were raised about a certain 'Con's movements, Jazz was consulted on the matter to see what he thought of it.

"Have you encountered any troubles?"

Jazz slanted the taller mech an arched look. "What do ya think?"

"No troubles, then," Blackhawk concluded. "And how are you finding your office suiting you?"

"It's no better than a cage."

The Autobot saboteur inclined his head. "There's not much that can be done about that."

"No, there ain't."

"Good thing you don't spend much time in there, yes?"

"It's a very good thing," Jazz assured.

Blackhawk paused, peering to Jazz with a curious look. "Excuse me for saying this, but I find it hard to envision you working in an office with the Decepticons. You're not the office-type at all."

"Ah didn't have an office with them," Jazz replied nonchalantly. "Don't like confinement much."

"No, I don't suppose you would."

They turned the corner into another hall, continuing to stroll at an easy pace. They passed a number of Autobots who spared them several curious glances. There was always a new rumour about Jazz to garner him both attention when he walked down a hall. Blackhawk gained some attention as well; he was not the subject of rumours often, but his enigmatic nature and the fact that he commanded Special Ops never ceased to generate morbid curiosity whenever he walked into a room.

Another hall passed them by. They came into a windowed corridor that gave them an excellent view of the activity in the courtyards beyond.

"Did ya just bring meh out here ta chat or is there an actual reason you're wasting mah time?" Jazz asked. He could admit that his patience was slightly eroded after having dealt with Firestar. If he took it out on Blackhawk, then so be it.

"I have a reason," Blackhawk assured.

"And that reason would be…?"

"When I first suggested that you become a consult for this faction, I had my own interests in mind," said Blackhawk. "Your talents are wasted in that office, as we both well know. There's not a bot on the planet who could be fooled into thinking you're content with office work. You'd rather be out in the field doing what you do best, yes? Infiltration and sabotage, data mining, viruses-."

"Torture is also a talent of mine," Jazz intoned flatly, not sure where this conversation was going.

"Yes, it is." Blackhawk's mismatched gaze glinted enigmatically. "My point is, you are not someone who sits around in an office all orn doing reports. You're not even the kind of bot who sticks around long in one place. You're used to freedom, doing what you want and heeding to no one."

It almost sounded like an offer to give him those things, which was a needless offer. Jazz curled his mouthplates in distaste. "Ah could have all of that if Ah wanted, without your help."

"True. I find it strange that you haven't taken it yet," Blackhawk intoned with a shake of his head. "What I am proposing is that you take those freedoms, but do so with my division. Simply put… I wish you to work with my division. I'm very interested in learning for you. With your talents, you would be invaluable to my division. In return, you get to do what you do best while increasing your value to the Autobots."

"And Ah care about what the Autobots think about meh because…?"

The sides of Blackhawk's mouthplates curved. "If you didn't care, then you, Prowl, and Ratchet would not have spent so much time covering your tracks. As it stands, you can understand my relief that Prowl is no longer falling down stairs or involved in horrible driving accidents."

Jazz scowled. Those were definitely not his best lies.

They continued walking aimlessly. They passed out of the windowed corridors into another compound on base.

Blackhawk revved quietly. "Well? Are you interested in working with the Special Ops division?"

"Out of the goodness of mah own spark?"

"Pretty much."

Jazz sighed. "Why not? Ah'm bored anyways."

Blackhawk said nothing, but smiled and nodded.

They continued to walk through Iacon's halls in each other's company. Jazz had no inclination to return to his office. Blackhawk didn't seem like he had anywhere to be, content to wander around until something better came along. With their conversation now ended, there did not seem any reason for them to continue with each other, yet they did not separate.

Jazz cast his fellow saboteur a sidelong glance. "You're from the colonies, aren't ya?"

"Yes, I am. There's no particular colony I call home, but I do come from them," replied Blackhawk. His accent, which he never bothered to mask, marked him as a colony bot. He made no secret of the fact. "I don't recognize your accent, though. Are you from the colonies as well?"

Jazz let his gaze linger suspiciously on his company for a moment, but discovered that Blackhawk seemed genuinely interested rather than digging for information to hold against him. That encouraged him to say, "No, Ah don't come from any particular place. Mah accent isn't a colony one, it's planetary, but it's old. Extinct now, except for meh."

Blackhawk considered the information he had just been given, then said, "I never expected you to tell me so much."

Jazz hesitated, then frowned. "Ah never expected ta say so much."

An almost-smile crept across the Autobot's faceplate, similar to Prowl's invisible smiles but not as handsome. "How about I give you something in return? I will tell you a secret of my own."

Intrigued, Jazz nodded his interest.

"We met once before, did you know that?"

"Ah've met a lot of bots," Jazz replied evenly. "Let meh guess… Ya were Security Response? Tried ta arrest meh once and it didn't work out for ya?"

"Not quite," Blackhawk chuckled ruefully.

Someone suddenly called the commander's designation. Both Jazz and Blackhawk turned to see who it was, discovering Nightbeat intersecting them from a connecting hall. Nightbeat was part of Special Ops; like most operatives of the division, Jazz could not find much information on him beyond basic credentials. After pleasantries were exchanged between Special Ops commander and subordinate, they dealt with some encoded information that had come into Nightbeat's possession. Instead of being left out, Jazz was brought into the conversation. They discussed the matter quickly, then Nightbeat left to deal with the data on his own.

Blackhawk waited for his subordinate to be gone before he returned to their original thread of conversation. "I was just an apprentice when I met you," he said to Jazz. "My mentor dealt directly with you."

"Ah see."

"She happened to be an arms dealer and a pirate."

The smile of interest wavered on Jazz's mouthplates. He'd met a lot of arms dealers and pirates in the past. None jumped out at him as particularly important.

"There was this one meeting my mentor had with you. She was supposed to have this big shipment for you from an alien world. It would have been a lot of credits to sell off, but she wasn't able to commandeer the ship to get the weapons off it. You weren't happy when she told you that." There was no inflection in Blackhawk's voice; it remained impartial, as if the story was only a story and not a piece of his life.

Jazz stopped in the middle of the hall, turning to the other mech. He knew himself too well, especially himself back then. Violent. Volatile. Merciless. He had never liked it when others failed to do what they were supposed to. He could guess where this story was going, and he didn't like it one bit.

"My mentor, she was called Ace. She was all I had in the universe." Finally, there was a bit of emotion in the Autobot's voice. Longing. Sadness. Quickly as it came, it was bottled away. "Before the meeting, she told me to hide and gave me a dampener so my spark signature was hidden. I wasn't allowed to move or make any noise. She was so scared that if you found me, you would kill me. From where I was hidden, I could see the whole meeting. I saw you fight with her..."

Cold foreboding flooded Jazz's spark. His fists clenched at his sides.

"…and then I watched you kill her."

Jazz's optics shuttered and he wished more than anything that he had his visor to hide behind. He was stunned by the depth of... _shame_ he felt. He still did not recall any pirate called Ace. He'd known a lot of pirates. Dealt with a lot of them and killed quite a few- some for business, some for pleasure. Even knowing her designation, knowing that he'd killed Ace with his bare hands, didn't illuminate her identity. It was all just a blur. That seemed to make the matters worse. Someone who meant so much to Blackhawk meant less than nothing to Jazz.

Blackhawk did not appear to feel any pity for Jazz as he watched the mech. There was no anger on his faceplate either. He just watched. "I waited for you to leave and I crept out of my hiding spot. You didn't leave much of Ace intact. All I could take was her optic." He raised a hand, touching just below his right optic- the light blue one. "I carry her with me always now." He let his hand fall back to his side. "That's my secret. I was a pirate once, until I met you."

"Ah'm…" the words got caught in Jazz's vocal processor. He didn't want to say the words, but something forced him to; he steeled himself, then forced the bitter-tasting words out: "Ah'm sorry."

"Don't be," Blackhawk assured. "I let go of my grudge a long time ago. It was just business back then. Ace knew what she was risking when she tried to deal with you. As sad as it seems, I owe you quite a lot. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have turned away from that lifestyle."

Jazz cast his gaze to floor. "Ah shouldn't have killed her."

"There's nothing we can do about it now," Blackhawk sighed. "I never thought that I would meet you again, but here we are, doing business together."

Jazz peered sidelong at his company. "If Ah was the one ta kill your mentor, why did ya suggest Ah become a consultant for your side? Ya should hate meh, not want meh ta work with ya."

"I can't hate someone who doesn't exist anymore," Blackhawk replied. "It was a long, _long_ time ago when we met; you are not at all like you were then. We're both different bots now. I have a division to run and I am interested in having the very best contribute. Objectively speaking, you are the very best. I suggested you become a consultant here because, regardless of our past together, you are still a valuable ally to have."

"Ah see." This was all just business to the mech. Jazz could appreciate that. He was good at business, too.

Blackhawk inclined his head, almost smiling- the gesture both sad and mildly amused. "All I can really say is that I hope our dealings now will turn out better than they did back then." He extended his hand to Jazz. His gaze was mild. Staring at the offering, Jazz offered his own hand; they grasped each other tightly, then released.

Blackhawk smiled, turning away and continuing to walk down the hall.

Jazz watched the mech leave, and then turned down a different hallway. He did not go back the way he came, choosing instead to move in a different direction.


	18. Chapter 18

Hey everyone~ Here's another chapter to the adventure that is _Where You and I Collide_! I was hoping to wait until Friday to post, but I'm not the most patient creature in the world (total personality flaw, I know). Plus, I'm mega-bummed with the super-flop of the most recent chapter of _Surface of the Sun_ (another fic of mine). So, as a pick-me-up, I'm posting this chapter here ^_^ I'm looking forward to hearing your thoughts on the chapter! ^_^

My sincerest thanks to the very special people who were able to take the time to review; you guys are my favourite people in the world! =P Thank you to **AriRashkae, Anasazi Darkmoon, Vivienne Granger, Gatekat, ChaosGarden, renegadewriter8, 1bloodtempest, CNightJoy, BoredTech, Bluebird Soaring, FoghornLeghorn83, abarai-san, femme4prime, Faecat, JemEvan, Got Buttermilk, phoebe turner, wolfhuntsmoon, Optimus Bob, Midnight Marquis, smoking caramel, Peacewish, UsagiLovesDuochan, lastditch, kathy3meme, Daklog73, Fiera Sabre, chaitea16, Chloo**, and **MissyMoo**. Your thoughts and enthusiasm never cease to put a smile on my face, inspiration in my head, and keep my fingers on the keyboard. =P

Read, Review, and Enjoy~ ^_^

**Chapter 18**

Prowl found Jazz sitting on the roof of an abandoned building that existed beyond the limits of Iacon's base compound. It was a relic of the Golden Age, left to complete disuse now. Warfare had turned the structure into a hollowed husk of rust and groaning support. It was far enough away from the outer boundaries of base that the lights did not reach out so far, leaving the shadows of night to swallow it. The sky above was velvet black, dotted by the faded lights of distant stars. Cybertron's two moons were in a dark phase tonight, offering barely enough silver light to see by. The wide expanse of ravaged land surrounding the base stretched out until the horizon, blackened jagged shapes reaching for the sky like claws. The rooftop was all but absolute silence, contemplative and heavy.

Jazz sat on the very ledge of the roof, as close to danger as he could get without truly falling off. His legs dangled over the edge, his armour chinking against the ledge whenever he moved. He was sitting in such a way that the dim light of the moons and stars glinted off his silver armour and made him seem haunting, as if he were not quite all there. His horned head was turned up to the stars, outlined by the stars. The two pinpricks of white light that served as his optics looked especially bright in the night, like twin captured stars burning from his faceplate.

If Prowl wished to be whimsical in his consideration of the saboteur, he might say that Jazz looked like his mind was in a galaxy far, far away. Given that he was _not_ prone to fanciful thinking, he merely concluded that Jazz was thinking intently on some unknown subject.

At first, he was reluctant to interrupt such intense contemplation. It was a very rare moment to see Jazz in such a stationary pose. Normally, he was an incredibly hard bot to pin down- both physically and metaphorically- even after their extended acquaintance with each other. To find the saboteur in such an isolated place was a rare occurrence that Prowl did not want to waste. It was an opportunity to study the silver mech, since there was always something new to learn about him.

"If ya keep staring at meh, you'll give meh a complex," Jazz suddenly said without looking around. He knew the moment Prowl had arrived without even needing to scan for the tactician's spark. It was simply a second sense he'd developed, knowing when Prowl was near. Prowl had a similar sense for Jazz.

"You already have enough complexes," Prowl replied, rolling his optics. His opportunity to study would have to wait for another time.

A soft sound like a brief laugh escaped Jazz. "Then stop staring, half-bit."

Prowl politely directed his gaze elsewhere, to the sky.

Jazz very briefly cast his gaze to Prowl before looking away again. "Nice night, isn't it?"

"I suppose," Prowl replied, staying in the entrance of the stairwell. He wasn't sure if he was welcome or not. He had no particular reason for seeking the saboteur out this night; he had came on a whim, which was something he did not do very often (although, he had to admit there was a distinct statistical increase in whim-following ever since he'd met Jazz). Even in finding Jazz, it had not been so much a logical calculation but an inclination of a direction that Jazz might have gone in, which turned out to be right since Jazz was now right in front of him. Now he did not know what to do.

The saboteur was not aware of Prowl's internal dilemma. Or, if he was, he didn't care. His attention appeared firmly fixated on whatever thoughts were running amok through his head.

Deciding that he would simply ask for an invitation rather than stand around like an idiot, Prowl enquired, "May I sit with you?"

Silver shoulders shrugged up. "Ya can do what ya like."

Deciding that that was invitation enough, Prowl moved across the derelict roof to the edge where Jazz sat. He climbed up on the slightly crooked ledge and let his legs dangle over the side. He looked down and realized that even though he knew exactly how tall the building was, the ground looked a lot farther away when he was staring at it from such a significant height. To make matters worse, he could hear the building moaning beneath Jazz's and his combined weight. It was extremely disconcerting. Prowl eased back and spread his hands behind him, seeking some form of stability. He did not like feeling like he was out on a ledge, despite the fact that he really was out on a ledge.

"Why did ya come?" Jazz asked, glancing Prowl's way.

"Do I need a reason to seek out your company?" Prowl wondered.

Jazz smirked. "Not always, but ya generally have a reason for everything."

"Generality does not always cover exceptionality," Prowl replied, almost teasing. He could admit that he was getting quite good at minor humour, but mostly only when he was speaking with Jazz. The saboteur had a talent for figuring out when he was trying to be funny.

This time was no exception; Jazz smirked. "Ah'm exceptional, am Ah?"

"In many cases, yes, but I was referring to circumstance not yourself," Prowl said, shaking his head. He wore his almost-smile. "My work is finished for the orn and I had no other pressing matters to attend to. I did not wish to return to my quarters, so I sought you instead." He considered his company for a moment, noting Jazz's distant expression. It was not as lively as it usually was. "If you want me to leave, I will."

"Nah, ya came all the way out here. Ya might as well stay."

"Thank you."

With one last glance to each other, they turned to the sky and the horizon it kissed. A night breeze blew over them, but they hardly felt the coolness as it swirled beneath the cracks in their armour. Cybertronians didn't care much for temperatures unless their armour was melting or their energon was freezing in their lines. So long as there wasn't an acid downpour raining on them, they were quite comfortable to be outside at any time.

The silence that had reigned before Prowl's arrival was restored, blanketing both bots in the contemplative silence. Prowl sighed absently, accepting that tonight would not be for long conversations. He was unperturbed by the idea, turning his attentions to the dark lands stretching out before him. He absorbed the cold night pensively. Usually, when he found himself in Jazz's company, they had no trouble with topics to discuss. They could speak with each other quite amiably for unusually long periods of time, almost to the point of distraction from their original work. Familiarity had bred a sense of ease that allowed them to broach topics that they would not normally discuss with others, especially topics that referred to themselves. Tonight, however, there did not seem to be much to say.

The silence was okay, too. Prowl was accustomed to silence and did not mind maintaining it.

He tilted his head back comfortably, shifting to find a comfortable spot on the uneven ledge. Since contemplation seemed to be the order of the night, Prowl decided to consider some matters of personal importance. It had been several dozen orns since his and Jazz's last meeting in the training range, which was their eighth meeting in total. The so-called 'initiation' stage was a slow but painful one which he was well acquainted with by now. It required long periods in between to heal before he could have the slag beaten out of him again. While he still did not have a grasp the _why_, he did have the consolation of knowing his pain threshold was increasing. Being able to withstand half a dozen stab wounds had its advantages. Plus, with the Autobots aware of his injuries were due to training, bots weren't staring at him as strangely as they used to. Only some, such as Sideswipe, continued to merrily gossip of other possibilities.

Prowl knew he was on the cusp of figuring out the mystery. It was on the very tip of his processor, yet he couldn't quite seem to grasp it. He not only hoped to end the initiation process for his own sake, but for Ratchet's as well. The medic had done well to maintain his promise to help them, but with each trip Prowl took into the med bay, Ratchet became increasingly unmanageable. There was no telling what the medic might do… or what he might throw.

"Ya know the time?" Jazz suddenly asked.

Prowl blinked out of his reverie. "Is your chronometer not working?"

"Ah turned it off ta be out here," Jazz replied with a clear indication that he didn't plan on turning it back on.

That was very strange to hear from Jazz. Normally, he did not like the thought of being disconnected from something, having other bots know something he didn't. Whatever he was thinking about, it must have been very serious for him to turn off his secondary programs. Prowl did not question the saboteur over the matter. He politely supplied Jazz with the time. They slipped back into a comfortable silence.

The short exchange brought another matter Prowl wished to consider: Jazz's time in Iacon.

Where had all the time gone? Logically, Prowl knew that time was a constant that did not move faster or slower on its own, yet... time seemed to have flown by. Jazz had come to Iacon a vorn ago. A _vorn_. He and Jazz had been aware of the anniversary when it had come and gone, but neither had bothered to say anything about it. There wasn't much to say, really. Megatron apparently had stopped sending parties to retrieve Jazz- or else, he had fallen back to wait for the opportune moment to strike in the future. Life in Iacon went on peacefully… as peacefully as life can be when living on a base filled with bots who liked to make nuisances of themselves.

Strange as it might seem, time had created a niche for Jazz to fit into… sort of.

There was still the occasional incident between Jazz and certain Autobots, but generally Mirage had the torment coming. Blackhawk could be found frequently inviting Jazz to be a part of a Special Ops mission; more often than not, Jazz accepted. On a few notable occasions, he'd even been named leader of the team. There were still too many reservations about him to give him a solo mission, though that time was coming. In the meantime, Jazz made a curious effort to be part of the team. He didn't get a lot of the "team" concepts, but no one really expected him to. Visiting Autobots from other bases still made some noise about Jazz being a dangerous liability, only to find that several Iacon Autobots had something to say contrary to their objections.

For his entire stay on base, Jazz had not killed a single bot- except for those who he deemed deserved it. They'd all been Decepticons, of course... and one Autobot traitor he'd caught before the security team could get to them. However, Firestar had gone missing for several orns, resulting in a _massive_ panic attack from Red Alert. Good news was, she managed to stumble her way back to base after a couple of orns with all of her limbs intact. Bad news was that Jazz had scrambled her processor so badly that it took Ratchet the better part of a fortnight to get the femme back in working order. There was no proof that Jazz had been involved, but no one really needed proof to know he'd done it.

It was a very slow metamorphosis, so slow that it was almost imperceptible, yet it was there. Prowl could see the many changes in Jazz.

If he was brutally honest with himself, he was forced to admit that being in Jazz's company had exuded its own changes in him.

"Ya didn't just come out here ta sit in silence, did ya?" Jazz suddenly wondered.

"I had no reason for coming out here at all, other than to be in your company," Prowl replied. "If you want, you can blame me for our silence, since I came here lacking in any topics to discuss."

Jazz shrugged. "Nah, Ah didn't feel much like talking, anyways."

"Ah." Prowl consulted his hands for a moment, wondering if Jazz's admission was an indirect request not to speak at all for the night. When he cast a sidelong glance toward Jazz and saw the mech's expression, which was a curiously haunted, he decided to be polite and ask rather than spend the night wondering. "Do you mind if I ask what you were thinking of?"

There came a shrug, followed by a long silence. Jazz watched the night sky for a little while, then replied, "Ah was thinking about stuff. And you?"

"Stuff, as well."

Jazz smirked at the answer. Prowl almost smiled in return.

They lapsed into another bout of silence that lasted for a fair amount of time, but did not stretch out so long as to bore them of each other's company. For the longest while, Prowl contented himself with the sky. He realized that in watching the stars tonight, he had not actually consciously looked at the stars in a very long time. It was odd to realize that he had always known the stars existed, but he could not recall a time when he had ever _looked_ at them. Now that he did see them, he discovered that they were really quite beautiful in a way that he could not describe.

Jazz revved quietly, his gaze focused on something other then the stars. He cycled air in through his vents, then sighed heavily. Drawn by the noise of his sigh, Prowl turned his gaze on the silver minibot and noted what direction he was staring. It was downwards, but not towards the ground. In his hands was a sleek, familiar shape; a crystalline visor to replace the one he had done without for so long.

"You must feel relieved to have a new one," Prowl commented.

"Hmm?" Jazz looked up from his visor, glancing Prowl's way. "Yeah, Ah guess. Ah got used ta being without it, but now that Ah have it back, Ah remember how strange it is ta be without it."

"May I see it?" Prowl enquired.

"Sure." The visor was held out.

Prowl took it into his possession mindfully. The reason it had taken so long to find a replacement visor for the one Prowl had destroyed was because Jazz insisted that diamond be used. He preferred diamond to any other crystalline material because it was the hardest material, scratch resistant. Diamond was not hard to come by, since carbon was easy to compress into the right material, but working with diamond to create the right shapes for Cybertronian use took certain skills. Ratchet, Wheeljack, and Perceptor were only trained to create lenses for optics. An Autobot from another base had to be appealed upon, and then the Autobot had to be convinced to take the job. He apparently had several issues with working for a mech like Jazz. The negotiation process had been difficult.

"It's very nice work," Prowl commented, turning the crystalline visor over in his hands.

"The bot who made it did five of them so Ah had replacements," said Jazz.

Surprised, Prowl offered a mild smile. "That was very kind of him."

"It was a fight to get that much," Jazz admitted reluctantly. "Ah had ta pay double the rate."

"Oh." Prowl felt his spark sink a little, disappointed that his own faction was so disgustingly stubborn. He ran his fingers over the sharp edges, admiring the work. Even if it had been done reluctantly, it was still quality. "Would you like me to help you put it on?"

Jazz hesitated, his white gaze flashing in the night. He had no reason to turn down the offer, so he conceded to it. They turned towards each other, careful of the ledge they sat on. The metal beneath them creaked. Crumbs of dark rust fell to the ground.

Prowl raised a finger beneath Jazz's chin, lifting his faceplate to inspect where the visor's connectors were. Around the edges of Jazz's faceplate, the armour rearranged subtly to make the connectors obvious. Their optics met for a very brief moment before dutifully looking away. Prowl raised the crystal visor and aligned it, adjusting it until it fit perfectly. The connectors clamped down and drew the edges of the crystal into place. A moment later, the crystal became integrated into Jazz's systems, lighting up with bright white light.

"There, it's a perfect fit," Prowl announced as he moved away.

Jazz touched his visor, the sides of his mouthplates curling up. "Thanks."

"You look very…" Prowl trailed off, wondering if it was appropriate to compliment the bot on something as simple as a visor.

"Handsome?" Jazz supplied, smirking.

Prowl looked away, revving quietly. "Symmetrical."

Jazz snorted.

They turned away from each other, both leaning back at the same time. Their hands moved back to brace their weight, but ended up brushing against each other. They jerked away.

"Sorry," Prowl automatically said.

Jazz shrugged. "Don't worry about it."

They settled back again, this time careful not to touch each other.

"Ya know, it's strange being here," Jazz said lowly.

"On a roof?"

A flat stare was directed toward Prowl. When Jazz realized he was being literal on purpose, he chuckled lightly. Prowl made a similar quiet noise.

Jazz quieted, his gaze settling on Prowl. "What's strange is meh being here in Iacon."

"Is it really that strange?" Prowl wondered. "You have been here for a vorn; I would have thought you would be accustomed to the place by now."

Jazz revved quietly. "Ah am used ta the place, and that's what Ah find weird. When Ah first came here, Ah thought Ah'd be long gone by now. Ah don't think Ah've ever spent so long in one place." He sighed, looking to the ground. "But here Ah am."

"Here you are," Prowl murmured. He could only guess by the tone Jazz was using that this was the matter he had been thinking of so intensely before. If anything, it was a really intense topic to consider.

"Ah think… Ah think maybe Ah should go soon," Jazz said, unable to look at Prowl.

Prowl jerked subtly with the force of his surprise. "Go? Where?"

"Ah don't know," Jazz sighed. "There are plenty of places ta go…" He stared down at his hands with a pensive frown, as if he could not believe the words he was about to say- "Ah've heard that one or two of the colonies are holding on. So long as Ah don't tell anyone mah designation, Ah should be fine."

This was not welcomed news to Prowl. "What about-?"

"Your training?" Jazz's gaze turned haunted, as it always did when the subject came up. It was as if the ghost of Xerxia still hung over him with every tortured memory he was forced to relive. "Ah don't know. Ah know Ah promised ta help ya, but that was a long time ago. Ah just _don't know_ any more." He blew a long, drawn out blast of air from his vents. "Ah do wanna make ya better, but maybe Ah'm really not the right bot for it."

"You promised…" Prowl trailed off, feeling ridiculous for bringing up such a petulant point.

Jazz's smirk was bitter. "It wouldn't be the first promise Ah've ever broken. Besides, look on the bright side- you won't get the slag beaten out of ya any more."

Prowl looked down, pressing his mouthplates together. He did not care about getting the slag beaten out of him. His reaction to the news of Jazz's intention to leave was not a logical one. Instead of immediately considering all of the tactical disadvantages Jazz's absence would cause, all Prowl could think of was how much he _disliked_ the idea of Jazz being gone. The niche that had been created for the saboteur would be empty. All of the adjustments Prowl had made to his own life to accommodate Jazz's presence would be for naught.

"It's not like Ah _want_ ta go. Ah just _have_ ta go," Jazz intoned, as if he was trying to justify himself. He was not a prisoner of Iacon, so he did not require any excuse to leave as he pleased, but for some reason, he felt as if he needed to say something to Prowl.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," Prowl replied quietly.

"Ya don't understand, Prowl," sighed the saboteur. He shook his head, moonlight glinting off his silver horns. "Ah'm not cut out ta be an Autobot- Ah figured that out a long time ago. Ah don't know what Ah'm doing anymore. Everything Ah've ever known has been turned upside down an' Ah don't know which way is up. It's better if Ah get away before things get worse."

"Did someone say something to you? Do something to make you want to leave?" Prowl pressed.

There came a shake of Jazz's head. "This isn't some sudden thing. It's been building up for a while. Ah've just been getting more and more confused and Ah don't like it. Things have gotten so out of control that Ah don't know how ta deal with it anymore. Ah think Ah need ta take a step back from all of this and figure things out."

"I cannot change your mind?" Prowl enquired.

"Ah'd prefer if ya didn't try," Jazz sighed.

Prowl's optics dimmed. "You will be… greatly missed."

Jazz's visor flashed, then suddenly the crystal shield flicked up. His optics were openly stunned, then he laughed without humour. "Ah won't be missed, Prowl. Life will just go back ta the way is was without meh. Peaceful. Boring. Logical…"

"On the contrary, the twins will be utterly unmanageable without you. Firestar is rather attached to you and will miserable in your absence. Blackhawk has become quite invested in your assistance in his division and will see a reduction in efficiency. And I…" Prowl trailed off unsurely.

"And you what?" Jazz pressed, suddenly very attentive of the answer.

Prowl cast his gaze to the night sky. "I will miss you for your company."

The effect of the words said aloud resonated in both bots. Their relationship was not only of competition anymore, nor was it the dynamic between master and student. It was something quite different, as unique as the two individual bots involved. Their relationship to each other was something that was strange and fickle, too evanescent to have a name just yet. Perhaps like a partnership, but certainly less defined. For such reputedly intelligent bots, both were at a loss to realize that they would _miss_ each other when out of company.

Jazz huffed a quiet laugh. "You're not such bad company either."

Prowl almost smiled. "If you do leave, will you come back?"

"Maybe." He didn't sound too sure about the answer.

"If you leave before I am cured of my problems, who else will there be to help me?"

"You're smart," Jazz replied, trying to be both serious and teasing. "Ah'm sure you'll be able ta figure it out. You've already come pretty far already an' we haven't even gotten out of the initiation stage. That's pretty damn impressive, if ya ask meh."

Prowl continued to frown.

Jazz nudged the tactician lightly with his elbow. "Ah see that look on your faceplate, Prowler. Don't think of this as a failure ta try ta convert meh into an Autobot. We both knew that was never gonna happen. Meh movin' on is the best thing for both of us."

Prowl sighed, hunching forward. Perhaps it had been obvious to Jazz, but not so for him. He had always held on to the small probability that he could change the saboteur. Now his processor raced with new calculations that showed that Jazz leaving would not be beneficial for anyone. He doubted Jazz was interested in such probabilities. Instead, he said, "Thank you for telling me this."

"It didn't feel right disappearing without saying something, ya know?" Jazz leaned to the side, reaching into his subspace pocket. He withdrew a small device, holding it out. "This is a tracer Ah put together. If ya ever really need ta get a hold of meh, this will do it. Even if Ah have a dampener on, you'll be able ta find meh."

Prowl took the gift into his hands as carefully as he had handled Jazz's visor. It was a very tiny tracer of mixed design. Jazz was not an engineer, but he was obviously proficient with constructing devices for his own specific means. When Prowl finally looked up to meet Jazz's gaze, he asked, "Do you know when you will leave?"

Jazz hesitated, thinking. "Ah don't know… whenever the time is right, Ah guess."

Prowl nodded, frowning. He tucked the small tracking device away into his subspace pocket. In an unspoken agreement, both bots turned away from each other to face the horizon. They spent the next several joors sitting in each other's company. Neither found much need for conversation, so they stayed in each other's company in silence. Near the grey crack of dawn, a sharp wind blew hard enough to rock the derelict building they sat on. They braced themselves, hoping not to plunge to their deaths. Their hands ended up touching as they held on to the ledge for dear life. After the building settled again, their grip on their perches relaxed, but their hands remained touching.

Without realizing it, Prowl must have dozed off. Obviously he was more tired than he had given himself credit for. The next thing he knew, he was being startled awake by the sound of rushing jet engines from above. His head jerked up, scanning the aircrafts. One was Powerglide, the other was Skydive. They were flying uncommonly fast, almost panicked. As they came closer, Prowl raised an arm to hail them. Both flyers acknowledged the hail with a tilt of their wings, though it was Skydive who dropped from flight to the roof, rattling the unsteady metal. Powerglide kept going for Iacon.

Prowl noted the flyer's expression, which was a mottled mix of panic and fear. Seeing this, he was immediately prompted to ask, "Has something happened?"

"We just got word about a recon team," said the aerial. "They got jumped while checking out some Decepticon activity in the borderlands between Iacon and Axiom Nexus. Most of the team got out, but Bluestreak wasn't so lucky."

"The Decepticons have Bluestreak?"

"Yes."

Coldness flooded Prowl. "Go- you need to alert the others with Powerglide. I will be right behind you."

Skydive bowed once before leaping to the air, gone in a streak of afterburn.

Prowl spun around to gather Jazz and leave, only to discover that Jazz was already long gone.


	19. Chapter 19

I got such a kick out of a lot of reviews of the last chapter! XD I never expected so many people to be fans of Bluestreak! ...or perhaps you're just terrified for what's going to happen to him. lol~ Either way, your sentiments for him brought a grin every time I saw them. =P For those who are fans of the bot or those who just happened to be scared for him… um, yeah, be terrified. Be _very_ terrified for him. *evil grin*

Oh, and anyone who is a follower of the larger _War Eternal_ series that this story belongs to, you may or may not pick up on special cameo in the chapter. *winks*

My sincerest thanks to the most amazing people in the world: **Optimus Bob, A Lurker, renegadewriter8, Reality Bores Me, Christina, BoredTech, MandaMelon, FoghornLeghorn83, Midnight Marquis, Gatekat, Bluebird Soaring, CNightJoy, Daklog73, Peacewish, Kai-Chan94, Anasazi Darkmoon, femme4prime, Fiera Sabre, abarai-san, Faecat, phoebe turner, JenEvan, PrancingTiger86, kathy3meme, smoking caramels, Nightblooming Orchid, Got Buttermilk, Juzu, 1bloodtempest, Sideslip, chaitea16, Jinx**, and **DitzyMusicLover**! Yes, it's true, you're all very amazing people. You are the few, the rare, and the beautiful- you take the time to leave a review! Each and every single one of you have my eternal thanks for your thoughtfulness, insightfulness, and kindness~ Thank you!

Special shout out to **DitzyMusicLover**, who is my 600th reviewer. This chapter is dedicated to you! ^_^

Read, Review, and Enjoy~

**Chapter 19**

Cybertron's geography and politics were relatively simple to understand on a planetary scale. The planet had 12 main territories, each sharing an equal portion of the planet. During the Golden Age and before, each territory operated as its own separate state run by lower-level Council members. Monoluna and Diluna, the two moons of Cybertron, were governed by a ruling body called the Luna Society. All forms of government pertaining to the moons and territories answered to the Council Pantheon, who in turn answered to the Prime.

The capitols of each territory were located in the center of the territory. Geographically, the capitols were curious land formations- massive, multilayered columns that rose up from the surface of Cybertron like cylindrical mountains. The summits of the massive columns were huge enough to contain cities atop them larger than some colonies. For each territory, their political power was concentrated in the capitol. When the war began, the political power of each territory fell, but the gigantic land masses remained. Because of their peculiarity, the columns were perfect defensive positions to build fortresses.

Each former capitol now served as a stronghold for either Autobot or Decepticon forces. The Autobots had strongholds in Iacon, Epsilon, Tyger Pax, Crystal City, Alta Trius, and Centaurie Tetrax. The Decepticons had control of Kaon, Straxis, Simfur, Axiom Nexus, Vos, and Polyhex. However, those 12 bases did not constitute the entire surface of Cybertron, only their capitol regions. The territories themselves that surround the bases were extremely large expanses of land. A bots could drive for days at top speed and perhaps not make it from one end to the other. These large expanses of unclaimed land beyond Autobot and Decepticon compounds were wild lands where living things were scarce and rules no longer applied.

Autobots, Decepticons, and Neutrals were forced to fend for themselves out in the ravaged land. Anyone could set up a miniature base, and outpost, or a camp anywhere they liked. There were Decepticons in so-called Autobot territories and Autobots in Decepticon territories. Neutrals existed wherever they could, scraping by on a meagre existence. It was a dangerous life. There were no guarantees. At any moment, fire and mortar could rain down from the sky and ravage whatever was unfortunate to exist on the land below.

Jazz's engine growled loudly as he rushed through the debris-strewn streets.

Dawn was beginning to break and he could see the grey horizon rushing up to meet him. He couldn't count the number of nights he'd sat on that dilapidated rooftop outside of Iacon's compound, letting the edge of the world seduce him. Some nights had passed when the urge was so strong, he could feel the sensation like a physical pull. But also in his chest had been a warring sensation to stay where he was. It was a novel feeling he hardly understood. Once or twice, he'd entertained the idea of staying in Iacon, truly making a go at being an Autobot instead of pretending in order to feed his morbid fascination with Prowl?

Primus, that sounded so damned stupid!

The time for such fantasies had waned. He'd been taught a long time ago that to have a home was to have something that could be taken away from him. To feel anything for any bot or place was to have a weakness for someone else to exploit. Oh, the _lessons_ he'd been taught about such things until they were living, breathing black oozing things in his mind and spark. He was made to never forget.

Leaving had been the best thing for him.

Cold air rushed over, around, and through his frame while he drove at top speed. The roads beneath his wheels were uneven, cracked and strewn with burned out wreckage. He felt prickling up and down his armour as dust, dirt, and flaked rust abraded his sides. He swerved and weaved at breakneck speeds, as if he were trying to outrace the ghosts lingering in the shadows lining the streets.

He determinedly avoided thinking of Prowl.

Prowl was the biggest part of his problem. In the span of a vorn, that damned tactician had somehow grown on him… like a fungus. Messed everything up. Everything was wrong now. He was making promises to bots he could never keep. As much as he liked the idea of a challenge… as much as he liked the idea of going head to head with Prowl… he knew that it was better to cut his losses now than to get involved in something that would only drag him down later. He'd been fooling himself for a vorn, but it was high time he woke up and moved on.

Burning heat seared through every inch of his frame. He could feel his engine revving at its maximum, and he stilled pushed to go faster. He was rocked to the core from the vibrations. Sure, he was built for speed, but not sustained speed. He wasn't built to go so fast for so far for so long. The problem was compounded by the unavoidable potholes he drove into. With each jarring impact, he felt something rattle loose inside him. Superimposed screens in his vision informed him of imminent overheating and structural damage if he kept up the abuse. Never one to listen to advice, Jazz kept up the abuse.

There had been a moment after Prowl had dozed off that Jazz had almost stayed. He'd been tempted to just sit there and let the poor mech recharge, keeping watch to make sure he didn't accidentally fall off the roof. He'd sat for several long breems just watching the mech sit there, crooked and slumped over, his doorwings drooping, his vents humming with soft cycles of air. A part of Jazz had wanted to stay so badly that it scared him.

A bigger part of Jazz knew that nothing good would ever come from staying.

He felt bad for leaving Prowl in the dust with their training incomplete. It was one of the very few times when he felt bad for breaking a promise. He'd been _so close_ to figuring out the mystery of the initiation beatings, but that was never to be. Jazz had a sneaking suspicion that even if Prowl had figured things out, he never would have been able to help the bot in the way he needed.

One broken bot couldn't fix another.

The sun finally crested the horizon, spreading faded dawn light over Cybertron's dead surface. Jazz came screeching to a halt as the end of the world came rushing up to him. He met the horizon in a red-brown cloud of rust. In a flash, he was on his feet, standing on the horizon. He stared past his feet to where the ground plunged down, down, down until the bottom was obscured by cloud and shadow. To his right was one of the old lifts that used to take bots from the upper levels of the capitol to the lower levels; there was no power supply to run the pulley system anymore. To his left was a makeshift lift that could be operated by hand.

His ticket to freedom.

He hesitated before stepping aboard, looking back the way he came. He'd driven too far to see Iacon's stronghold anymore. All he saw was twisted dark shapes of hollowed out buildings and the ghosts of the dead that lingered in them. He turned away and released the lock on the rattling lift, slowly lowering himself into the wild lands.

* * *

Prowl sped through Iacon's main gates, letting every Autobot he passed jump out of the way rather than swerve to avoid them. An angry cloud of pebbles and debris spat from his back wheels, coating the armour of unsuspecting bots. He sped in this nearly-reckless state to the main building of the Iacon compound. Without a doubt, this was the building Powerglide and Skydive would have flown to. Prime was on duty in the command center; for something like this, Optimus Prime had expressly stated that he wanted to be informed of any and all kidnappings and/or hostage takings. It did not matter the time of orn or night, he wanted to know.

Prowl sped up the ramp, skidding to a furious halt so forcefully that he left black slash marks from his tyres in the ramp. He wrenched himself to his feet, shoving transforming parts of himself into place as he rushed into the building. Several members of his own division attempted to gain his attention, but they were staunchly ignored until they took the hint and went away. Prowl's tense figure and brisk pace drew more than a few curious stares.

Anyone who saw his faceplate, the stormy expression taking residence there, quickly looked away.

In his head, he received an open summons from Optimus Prime to all available commanders. A meeting was to be convened immediately. Powerglide and Skydive must have delivered their less than pleasant news. As the Head Tactical Adviser, Prowl was required to attend. He veered in the hallway so sharply that Windcharger was nearly bowled over.

He passed the twins in the hall, not even bothering to spare them a glare. Sideswipe was forced to jump out of the way lest he get run over. The red mech opened his mouthplates to object to the rude treatment, but swallowed the words when he saw Prowl's optics. Prowl was not even out of audio range before Sideswipe leaned over to his brother and whispered, "Oh damn- he's got his scary stare on."

Prowl's mouthplates curled in distaste.

_Scary stare._

He'd heard the term used many times amongst bots who'd thought he couldn't hear them; the term usually referred to the characteristics of his stare when his emotional center was turned off. Objectively, there was no change in the shape, colour, or constitution of his optics when he turned his emotional center off, and he did not dare tell anyone when he did it, but for some reason bots seemed able to sense when they change came over him. They didn't like it when he stared at them without any hint of emotion in his optics.

Anyone who thought he had turned his emotional center off was wrong.

It was _on_.

He could feel the storm inside him. It was like sandpaper scraping his insides. He just couldn't figure out what he was supposed to be feeling. It was almost like suffering from a backlash, but without the immense physical shock to accompany it. He suffered the discomfort of whatever he was feeling, but the discomfort was minor in comparison to anything he had felt before. Personally disturbing, yes, but not as severe as any case suffered in the past. There were too many emotions rushing around inside him to rationally understand where one ended and another began.

He was angry… at who? Who was he supposed to be angry at? Jazz for leaving, or himself for not being able to stop him? Did he feel disappointment as well? It could have been disappointment, but he couldn't be sure in amongst everything else; disappointed in himself that he failed in his mission to make Jazz into an Autobot. Disappointment bled into bitter failure and failure tumbled into shame. His shame bred frustration with himself that he could not be better than what he was- if he had been a better tactician, a stronger Autobot, a more interesting Cybertronian, perhaps he could have lured Jazz to stay. Frustration turned into contempt for his own shortcomings, which then turned into disgust for his inabilities. Disgust ultimately turned into the bitter bile of self-hatred, the emotion Prowl was most familiar with.

Mixed through the maelstrom was a permeating sense of confusion.

Why, exactly, was he reacting so chaotically to the prospect of Jazz being gone?

To add insult to injury, Prowl was further taunted by the knowledge that everything he felt was far out of proportion to what it should be. A symptom of his damned handicap- Emotional Maximum Output syndrome. EMO. How he hated that degrading title.

"Prowl!" someone called. "Prowl, slow down!"

He skidded to a stop and spun around. Behind him was Elita One trotting with Blackhawk at a brisk pace, their faceplates mild. They had no idea what kind of news they were about to receive from the Prime. Prowl almost wished he did not know, that he was as ignorant as the others. It would be one less thing to bother him while everything else warred within him.

Since Elita One was not only the commander for the femme division but also the Prime's sparkmate, Prowl stiffly bowed for her as she approached. The formality was waved away in favour of the three of them walking together to their destination. As a trio, their pace did not slow. The urgency in Prime's call carried their feet briskly through the halls. Prowl's especially curt behaviour became obvious to his companions as he continued down the hall with little regards to others, letting Autobots jump out of his way without paying them much mind.

They were upon the door of the meeting room in record time, but before they could enter, Elita laid a hand to Prowl's arm to stall him.

"Is everything alright, Prowl?" wondered the femme, her narrowed optics suspicious as she searched the tactician's gaze. "You seem unusually agitated."

Blackhawk lingered by the door, his own concern mildly etched on his faceplate.

Prowl cast his gaze to the floor. Of their own volition, his fists closed at his sides. "I am fine, Elita One."

Elita let her hand fall away, her expression remaining unconvinced. "Do you know something about why Optimus called this meeting?"

"Yes," Prowl replied. He would not lie to the Prime's sparkmate if he could help it.

A subtle frown pulled at the femme's mouthplates, but she was far too polite to order Prowl to divulge the knowledge. She would find out soon enough.

Blackhawk revved quietly, casting his mismatched gaze down the hall curiously before refocusing on Prowl. "Where is Jazz?"

Prowl's gaze shot up from the floor, flashing sharply before he looked away. Without saying another word, he passed into the meeting room and took his seat. It was intensely rude of him to leave them as he did, but his abruptness could not be helped. He did not think he could keep his composure if he spoke at that moment.

There were several commanders already present, Optimus Prime among them. Mirage sat in his usual seat, while Ironhide and Ratchet sat together, Wheeljack relaxing in his accustomed spot next to Ratchet. If anyone noticed Prowl's behaviour, they said nothing about it. Indeed, a number of them simply assumed the same thing that Sideswipe had- that Prowl had reverted to that intolerable state he occasionally suffered. Ratchet, however, was much smarter than the others when it came to understanding the many subtle moods of Prowl. He knew right away that something was the matter beyond a simple turning off or on of an emotional center. He was also smart enough to say nothing of it in front of everyone else.

It was only a matter of breems before all of the available commanders had gathered in the room. Optimus Prime did not sit at the long table like everyone else. He stood at the far end and paced, his faceplate drawn into tight lines of concern.

"I am afraid I have just received some unfortunate news from two of our aerials," he began. "The recon team we sent out to investigate the rumour of a Decepticon camp set up in the Iacon-Axiom Nexus territory boundary has been attacked."

Several commanders drew back. They could easily guess the dark conclusion that such an announcement would herald.

"I sent Hound on that team," Mirage intoned, indignant that any bot of his could botch a mission. Or perhaps it was something else… Mirage and Hound had once been lovers before the war, after all.

Ultra Magnus shot the Master Spy a hard look before turning his attentions back to the Prime. "What do we know of the attack?"

Optimus finally forced himself to stop pacing, coming to stand behind his chair. His grasp on the top ledge of it was severe. "Powerglide and Skydive learned of the attack while they were flying back from Alta Trius. They came upon the recon group in Iacon territory. The team was apparently discovered while scoping out the Decepticon camp. Most of them managed to get away and are making their away to a Neutral Camp in Iacon as we speak. I've dispatched First Aid with a ship to collect the bots and bring them home."

"Well, that's good that they managed to get away," Wheeljack sighed, glad to know that there had been no fatalities in the encounter.

"You said 'most of them', Prime," Blawkhawk intoned. "Who didn't get away?"

Optimus sighed, bowing his head. He seemed to be having a hard time getting the designation out.

"Bluestreak," Prowl answered for the Prime. It was impolite to speak for his leader, but at the moment, he was not very concerned with manners. "Bluestreak is the one who did not get away."

All sets of optics flashed his way.

"You already knew?" Ironhide rumbled, arching an optic ridge.

Prowl nodded. "I was outside the perimeter of the base when Powerglide and Skydive came in. Skydive informed me of the matter before he continued into Iacon."

There were several questioning glances traded between the commanders, all wondering why their head tactician would be out in the middle of the night. Prowl did not meet any of their gazes. He did not offer any explanation. Since the matter was not as important as the one at hand, it was dropped in favour of moving forward with Bluestreak's situation.

"Do we know if Bluestreak is still alive?" Elita One asked.

"Powerglide and Skydive indicated that the recon team believed Bluestreak was still alive, but they could not be sure," Optimus sighed.

"If he's alive now, he won't be for long," Ratchet intoned darkly. "When he's scared, he talks. When he talks, he annoys. If he annoys the Decepticons, they'll kill him."

"Unless they're looking for a ransom," Wheeljack intoned, trying to look hopeful. "They'll keep him alive if we trade for him."

"Nothing has been transmitted here or to Axiom Nexus's base from the Decepticons. If they wanted to trade, someone would have said something by now," Blaster said with a solemn shake of his head. "It's not too late to still have a ransom note, but our chances aren't looking too good."

"We can only hope that Bluestreak manages to stay silent in order to stay alive long enough for us to rescue him," Optimus said.

"That doesn't give us much time," Ratchet pointed out.

In the politics of war, commanders were expected to live much longer in captivity than a low-ranking warrior. Enemies could funnel information from a commander, taking their time to torture needed knowledge out of someone, such as in the case of Prowl's captivity. Bluestreak was not a high-ranking individual. He was not privy to vital information. Rationally, he had little value to the Decepticons unless they were looking for ransom. If Bluestreak annoyed them, there would be very little incentive to keep him alive. And Bluestreak would annoy them; there was no question about that.

"Damn this," Elita One sighed quietly, her gaze directed to the table.

Despite his low-ranking status, the sniper had many friends amongst the Autobots, plus the favour of a few of the commanders. All who knew him were fully aware of his unusual quirk. He talked a lot. An obsessive-compulsive talker. It wasn't so much that he talked to hear his own voice, but more so as a nervous habit and a coping mechanism to combat the many horrors he'd been forced to witness since the war began. He talked in order to keep his demons away. Aside from the talking, he was a very sweet mech and a talented sniper. It would be a great blow to many bots if they were to lose Bluestreak.

"I can send a bot out immediately to scope out the area to determine if Bluestreak is alive or not," Blackhawk said.

"And risk having him captured too? That would be so helpful," Mirage countered scathingly.

"Mute it, Mirage," Wheeljack snapped.

Mirage scowled.

Blackhawk did not grant the Master Spy the satisfaction of being effected by his words. Instead, he regarded Optimus Prime with a slight inclination of his head. "This would actually be a perfect mission to send Jazz on," said the saboteur. "Jazz has been with working with my division for a while now. I would trust him to run a solo mission. Out of all of us, he knows the Decepticons the best and should be able to get in and out without being noticed."

"That's an excellent suggestion," Optimus agreed, relief evident on his faceplate. "I have no doubt that Jazz would be well suited to such a mission."

The bots who normally would have objected to such a suggestion remained silent. Ratchet had his own reasons, which he was not inclined to share with anyone. Ironhide and Mirage merely sealed their mouthplates together and seethed in silence. They were never listened to anyways, so there was no point in saying anything of the matter this time.

Those who were normally in favour of Jazz's integration into Autobot life, namely Elita One, Blackhawk, and occasionally Wheeljack, looked content with the decision.

Prowl's shoulders dropped, doorwings noticeably drooping.

Wheeljack's crystal fins flashed dimly as he realized something important. "Where _is _Jazz, anyways? I haven't seen him for a couple of joors…"

"It's odd that he didn't come with the summons," Blackhawk noted, his gaze sweeping the room as if Jazz were lurking in some shadowed corner. Despite the fact that the saboteur was not a commander, he did attend many of the commanders-only meetings. At first, it had been a very reluctant arrangement. It did not take long for Jazz to work his peculiar brand of charm, making it a regular scene for him to attend meetings and contribute input. His current absence was noted by everyone. Because it had become the habit of many Autobots to understand that where Prowl generally was, Jazz was usually close at hand, the commanders turned once again to regard their tactician. Surely Prowl would know why Jazz hadn't come. He, of all bots, would know where Jazz was lurking.

Like before, Prowl did not meet any of their gazes.

Elita One leaned across the table. "Prowl, do you know something?"

Prowl glanced at the femme, knowing that answering the question was now unavoidable. He sighed, "Yes, I do know something."

Optimus glanced between his mate and his tactical adviser. He leaned heavily on the back of his chair, focusing his gaze solely on Prowl. "Bluestreak's life is at stake here, Prowl. Tell us where Jazz is. The longer we wait to do anything, the greater danger Bluestreak will be in."

Prowl forced himself to meet the Prime's steady gaze. He could hardly believe the words he was saying: "Jazz is gone, sir."

There came a stunned silence. Several bots looked as if they were not sure if they had heard the statement correctly.

"What do you mean _gone_?" Ratchet demanded.

Prowl kept his gaze fixed on the Prime, unable to bring himself to look at anyone else. "The reason I was outside the compound tonight was to be in Jazz's company. He expressed to me that he was unsatisfied with staying in Iacon and that he wished to leave. So he left." To his own audios, his voice was stilted. Stiff and brittle.

"So you just let him leave?" Ironhide exclaimed incredulously. "You didn't even try to stop him? That bot practically knows all of our secrets and you just let him be on his merry way?"

A cold gaze was settled on the weapons specialist. "Jazz was never a prisoner here. He came of his own freewill, and he left in the same fashion."

"Well isn't that just dandy for him," Ironhide growled.

"He will keep our secrets. I have no basis for this assertion, but I am confident he will not outright betray us." Prowl shuttered his optics for a moment, then he forced his gaze to remain neutral. "There was nothing I could do to make him stay."

"Do you know where he went? Is there a way to get in contact with him?" Optimus pressed.

Prowl thought briefly of the tracking device stashed in his subspace pocket, only to dismiss the idea as quickly as it came. Even if he did not completely understand Jazz's reasons for leaving, he could respect them. There were many capable warriors in the Autobots ranks who could make up for the loss of one Neutral. They had gotten along just fine before he had come to them, and they would carry on just fine without him now that he was gone.

"Prowl?" Optimus prompted, bringing the tactician's mind back from the ether.

"He snuck away in a moment of my distraction," Prowl admitted, embarrassed to find himself distracted again. "He left no indication of where he was going." He cycled cool air through is vents, hoping to cool the rage of emotions warring inside him. "We are perfectly capable of formulating a rescue without Jazz's assistance. We have done so in the past and I have every confidence we can do so now."

There was hesitation before anyone spoke next. The difference in Prowl's behaviour was now marked by all bots present. With the news of Jazz's leaving, there was no doubt of the cause of the tactician's agitation. Even if the Autobot commanders knew Prowl and Jazz were not intimately engaged, as the rumours would suggest, none of them were stupid. They knew a friendship when they saw it… even if it was a really messed up friendship.

Blackhawk was the first to speak. "Yes, of course, we mustn't waste time. I can send Nightbeat out immediately."

Optimus nodded. "In the meantime, the rest of us must stand on guard. Alert your divisions to the situation so that they will be prepared at a moment's notice to move. It is unfortunate that we do not have Jazz with us anymore, but we have no time to linger on the matter. Bluestreak's life is on the line."

With those dark words hanging in the air, the commanders rose from their seats and quickly exited the room. The only mech not to move so quickly was Prowl. Optimus Prime also stayed behind, watching the tactician carefully. Prowl sensed the Prime's stare, turning to him.

"Sir?"

"I realize that Jazz was your friend, Prowl…" Optimus said quietly.

Prowl jerked back at the term friend, but did not refute it. "I will not allow my personal life to affect my duties, sir. You have my word that Bluestreak is my priority." He made a beeline for the door and was gone.

Optimus sighed. "That is not what I was going to say," he said to the empty room. He'd simply intended to express his condolences over the loss of the saboteur.

* * *

Completely by chance, Jazz happened to stumble upon a developed Neutral camp. Several joors after his drop into the wild lands, he was sorely in need of something to make the burning in his axles stop- preferably a strong high-grade. He knew there was nothing to be done for the discomfort in his chest, suspiciously lurking around the spot where his spark resided.

Upon discovering the camp, it had been Jazz's first instinct to disguise his spark signature and sneak in, giving himself free reign of the supplies the bots managed to save. But then it occurred to him that there was no need for any such deception. He was just as Neutral as any of them, bearing the white optics and lack of faction alliance.

Even if some bots in the camp knew the designation "Jazz" and all the nightmares associated with it, it was unlikely that they knew the faceplate attached. Jazz had absolutely no intention of letting the camp know who he really was. The two possible outcomes of such a scenario were not the most pleasant; either a mass panic in order to get away from him or a mass attack in an attempt to kill him. Jazz was in no mood for pandemonium or a fight, so anonymity was his friend today.

Honestly, he was in no mood for anything except assuaging the disturbing ache in his chest.

Keeping moving. Don't stop. Get as far away as he could.

Go back. Stay there. Accept that things were beyond his control.

Slowing down to a rolling halt, Jazz transformed and shook out his frame. The hard drive had done its fair share of damage. Not the worst he'd ever suffered, for sure, but enough to feel the ache. He appreciated the soreness. It was a nice distraction from thoughts he did not want to think about.

Jazz would _not_ think of the storm-grey tactician he'd left in his dust.

"Hey there, stranger," someone called, breaking Jazz from his reverie.

Jazz looked up and noted the two warriors that hailed him. They were two among many dotting the outskirts of the encampment; some of the warriors were loyal to the camp and others paid to be there. The two that approached Jazz were unthreatening in their manners even as they sized each other up with polite wariness. One never knew when danger was rolling in under the disguise of a smile. Jazz determined that the Neutral warriors were trained to fight, but more interested in protecting than killing. One boasted of a sword that marked him as a traditional diffusion fighter, the rival fighting style to circuit-su. The warriors themselves took note of Jazz scrupulously, but apparently saw nothing threatening in the silver minibot. One enquired to Jazz's business, to which Jazz replied honestly that he was just passing through. Another warrior wondered if Jazz had encountered any trouble during his solo drive through the wild lands; Jazz had encountered no more trouble than the normal case of bad roads and too many ghosts.

With pleasantries exchanged, Jazz was allowed into the camp.

It was strange not having immediate suspicion sear through him like laser beams.

To give his wheels a break, Jazz remained in bipedal mode, setting off at a moderate pace through the modest camp. The camp was not one of shanty huts and tarp tents, but an area staked out amongst the wreckage, employing buildings that were not too terribly destroyed as shelter. A meagre power source had been found, hooked up to a few scarce lights shining from inside otherwise haunting dwellings. The streets had been mostly cleared of debris. No dead frames were in sight. It was a large camp, by the looks of things- perhaps one or two hundred Neutrals. The place looked relatively undisturbed, as well- left alone from assault long enough to have a routine to life established. Bots in the street were walking around with purpose, going about chores to keep the camp running smoothly.

Despite the fact that a planetary war raged in all direction, the camp survived as some kind of soot-smeared oasis.

Jazz could not linger in this place for too long. Despite the quaint appeal of the place, he had no urge to stay; it did not draw him as one particular place did. Jazz had no desire to suffer the uncomfortable draw toward Iacon any longer than he had to; if he put enough distance between that damned based and himself, hopefully his fragging connection to the base would snap.

He would not bother himself longer than he had to by staying close.

The sound of brief laughter drew his attention. Turning on his heel, Jazz watched as a discreet door in the side of a crooked, pockmarked building creaked open and two bots wandered out. They had their arms around each other, laughing at some joke. Curious of the scene, Jazz made his way closer to investigate. Upon closer inspection, the pair of bots were slightly inebriated, and they greeted Jazz with abandoned salutations. Jazz decided they were beneath his notice and ignored them accordingly.

However, the alley he wandered into was worth his attention. It was a shaded, narrow passage between two buildings- one standing and the other collapsed over the alley to form a triangular tunnel. One might assume that such a place filled with dust and debris would carry a musty scent, and it did, but there also lingered a strange drugging sweetness. Jazz attributed the unusual smell to leaching scents from whatever it was that laid behind the door in the wall, which sat so discreetly in its doorframe that it was nearly perfectly camouflaged unless you were looking directly at it. The door itself sat crooked on its hinges, its shape warped from extreme age. When looking directly at it, Jazz got the curious sense that the door was not supposed to be there. It looked too random to be purposeful, but too purposeful to be completely random. Above the door was a splash of faded graffiti in old Cybertronian script. It read _Mac's_.

The door opened, forcing Jazz to take a step back as a bot exited. The door snapped closed behind him. Jazz remained in the alley, transfixed by the small scribble of graffiti.

He'd known a place called _Mac's_ once, but that had been a very long time ago. It had been owned by a very kind bar tender who had often taken pity on him after he managed to drag himself away from Xerxia. More often than not, Jazz had been allowed to hide for a few orns on a cot in the back of the bar until he healed. It was impossible to even begin to think this was the same _Mac's_ he'd once known. This was the wrong territory and the wrong time. The original Mac was most likely long dead, his establishment nothing but dust. Nevertheless, it was a curious thing to come upon a place that bore the same name.

Unable to resist peeking inside the place, Jazz opened the door and stepped inside. It took a moment to adjust his optics to see properly. There were only two dim lights hanging from the ceiling illuminating the large, low room. Despite its deceptively plain outer shell, the inside of the place had survived hard times in relatively good condition. Booths lined the walls while tables and chairs were paired around the floor. A long counter stretched out along one of the far walls, lined by stools that looked older than Cybertron itself. A handful of bots sat scattered about, talking in low voices. Several white gazes looked up to inspect the newcomer, and then looked away when they had their fill.

Still feeling rather restless, Jazz sidled up to the bar and wondered if the place sold high-grade.

From a rusty door to the side came a tall figure painted in blacks, browns, and golds, a bot so thin that his spindly legs did not look stable enough to hold him up. He had four arms instead of two, standard design for a bar tender. The arms were bizarrely thin, like the rest of him. Jazz could only guess that the poor bot had donated so much of himself to others in need that there was hardly anything left. Even if that was the case, the expression on the bot's faceplate was far from bitter. He looked to be the type of bot who had a perpetually pleasant expression, mixed somewhere between curiously bemused and bemusedly curious.

"You're new," observed the mech, looking Jazz up and down.

"On the contrary, Ah'm old," Jazz replied, smirking. He came up to one of the stools and took a seat, feeling great relief as weight was finally taken off his aching joints.

"What a coincidence, so am I," replied the bar tender with a smile. From such a short exchange, the bar tender was now convinced that he was dealing with a good bot. Jazz could see the conclusion in his optics and did not bother to correct the assumption. "Can I get you anything?"

"Got any high-grade?" Jazz asked, feeling the need for a little buzz to take the edge off his restlessness.

Spindly shoulders jerked up in a shrug. "A bit, but it's nothing fancy."

Jazz shook his head, the edges of his mouthplates edging up. "Ah don't need nothing fancy."

Humoured light danced in the skinny bot's optics. "That's too bad, because that's the brand name: Nothing Fancy."

A low laugh drifted from Jazz. "Alright, then Ah wouldn't mind Nothing Fancy."

"It's yours, then." With startling grace for someone who looked like a breeze could knock over, the bar tender was gone into the back to scrounge up what he had.

Jazz leaned his elbows on the bar surface and braced his weight, waiting for his high-grade to come. It wasn't a long wait, since the spindly bot was back in less than a breem. The small cube he had in his hands was dusty, the glow of the high-grade a little dull. By looking at it, Jazz knew it wasn't as good a quality as Sideswipe's, but then again, with a name like Nothing Fancy, you couldn't really expect much. In a surprise move, the bar tender tossed the sealed cube in the air and juggled it around between his four arms before sliding it into Jazz's hands.

Jazz laughed again, glancing at Spindly- a designation he decided he would call the mech in his head. "Ah used ta know a bar tender who did the exact same trick," he said.

"We're all programmed with the trick. It's good for getting a smile," said Spindly with a crooked smile of his own. While Jazz cracked the seal and downed half the cube, Spindly took up some dusty and dirty cubes and started wiping them off with a damp cloth. The cleaned ones he stacked on the shelf behind him.

Jazz was left to his own thoughts. He thought of where he might go as soon as he was done in the camp. Maybe he'd head to Vos and catch a flight to one of the moons, or maybe a colony. The thought of striking up his old merchant trade wasn't too repulsive. He probably still had some contacts floating around. But there was no challenge to trading, and since the economy was basically non-existent now, there was no worth in the endeavour either. He could always find a Neutral camp and do… something.

Jazz scrubbed his faceplate with his hand, disgusted with himself.

What the pit was he thinking? Be one of those bored, sorry-looking bots sitting on the periphery of the camp? A half-cocked warrior wasting his orns doing nothing but passing off vapid conversations with dirty, lost bots wandering in from wild lands… Had he really sunk that low? He was better than that. He'd find something else to do.

Unbidden by himself, a flash of storm-grey crossed his mind.

"Damn it," Jazz growled, shuttered his optics. Maybe the high-grade was stronger than it looked.

"If you don't mind my saying so, you look lost," Spindly commented, done with stacking cubes. He had no other duty, so he was free to give Jazz his full attention.

Jazz looked away from the dirt-coloured mech, disliking that he could be read so easily. "Ain't lost."

"Could have fooled me." Spindly leaned in, bracing all four of his too thin arms against the counter. "Generally speaking, a bot doesn't wander in here unless he's lost or hiding from something. So which is it- lost or hiding?"

Jazz wondered if Spindly was referring to the camp itself or just the bar. Deciding that it didn't really matter, he shrugged. What did it matter what he said to the bot? He was going to be gone in a little bit anyways. "Either one, Ah guess."

Spindly gave a soft laugh, but it was a sad sound. "I hear a lot of that these orns, you know? Bots don't know what to do with themselves anymore."

"Ain't that the truth," Jazz snorted. He felt pathetic. There had been a lot of lows in his life, mostly in the early vorns, but sinking to the level of taking advice from a nameless bar tender? This was the ultimate low for Jazz. Rock bottom.

Spindly sighed, patting Jazz's forearm. "I've seen a lot of bots like you in places like these. One thing I've noticed is that a lot of their problems aren't as big as they seem to think they are." There was a brief shrug. "Being lost… well, I think that's just life's way of giving a bot the opportunity find himself."

Jazz pushed away from his seat, tired of the conversation. "That's nice and all, but Ah'm fine the way Ah am, thanks. What do Ah owe ya?"

"For the drink or advice?"

"The drink." Because the advice sucked.

Spindly offered a crooked smile. "First one is on the house."

Jazz revved, spinning on his heel and making his way to the door. He barely caused a stir from the other patrons. He realized that if he kept running, moments like these would probably constitute the rest of his life; never causing a stir wherever he went. He'd become just a background character in everyone else's life. The thought of it left a bitter taste in him.

"Hey, Jazz," called Spindly.

Jazz tensed, his hand on the door. He turned just enough to see the strange bar tender still standing behind his bar. The glow of the dim lights reflected on the mech's blue optics, turning the crystal lenses a curious molten amber.

"Good luck."

"For what?" Jazz wondered warily.

The bar tender shrugged. "For whatever it is you think you're doing."

Jazz snorted, swinging out the door. It was not until he was halfway down the alley before he realized that the bar tender had called him by designation. Running through his entire exchange with the bot, Jazz knew he had never mentioned who he was. Cold suspicion stole through Jazz, mixed with the notion of impossibility. Instead of swinging around and marching back into _Mac's_, he kept walking away from it. There were some ghosts better left dead.

Upon exiting the covered tunnel-alley, it became apparent that there was a commotion going on outside the camp on the opposite side from where Jazz had entered. Shouting voices and the sound of running bots carried through the air. Curious, Jazz scanned the area to see if he could figure out the issue. If it was a raid, he'd have to get out of there quick. He was in no mood to fight. No Decepticon signatures appeared on his scans, but a small handful of Autobots did. Jazz knew those signatures.

Spurred on into a fast trot, Jazz made it to the far side of the camp to watch as nearly three dozen Neutrals converged on a group of three battered Autobots. The warriors protecting the camp did not offer assistance to the Autobots; their weapons were drawn, watching warily. Whereas Jazz had been Neutral and seen as no threat, the Autobots carried obvious allegiances, which meant the possibility of dragging the war into the camp more than it already was. It was other Neutrals who gathered around Hound, Skids, and Nazkar to help them into the boundaries of the camp. A medic was promptly summoned, beginning field repairs.

Jazz inched out of sight, not wanting to be spotted by the Autobots. He watched the scene play out. Skids and Nazkar were the worse off of the three bots; they did not speak, nor were they able to come out of their alt modes on their own. The roofs and afts of their alt modes had taken heavy damage, trailing smoke and energon behind them. Hound faired better, his armour thicker than his companions'. It took a bit of effort, but he brought himself out of his alt mode with only minimal grinding and sparks. The scout's normally happy faceplate was tense and dark, his optics frightened and stunned and a tiny bit wild.

Jazz searched his memory banks, recalling one group that had been sent out to the borderlands to scout the area. It had been a group of four, consisting of Hound, Skids, Nazkar, and Bluestreak. Jazz searched the crowd for the fourth member of the group. Nowhere among the sea of heads did he see the sniper's light-grey head. He scanned for a spark signature instead, still coming up empty.

"_Damn." _He craned his head over the crowd, trying in vain to see something he knew wouldn't be there.

It shouldn't have mattered to him. If he was smart, he would have walked away then and there. The Autobots were not his problem anymore. He didn't have to waste his time on them, yet he stayed where he was searching the crowd for anything, even a dead frame.

There came a break in the crowd through which Hound looked up and caught Jazz's optics. As a scout, Hound sense of sight was acute and his ability to recognize bots by sight alone was second to none. His optics widened in surprise, and that surprise faded into an expression of unease. The crowd shifted, putting a dozen or so bots between them.

Jazz really should have taken that moment to leave. He had never intended to be spotted, because that would cause all sorts of unneeded questions. Yet he didn't leave. Instead, he remained as if his feet were rooted to the spot. The next time an opening came, Hound raised his hand in a hesitant gesture, unsure if Jazz would acknowledge him at all. Jazz stared at the raised hand, and then inclined his head in return. Of their own accord, his feet started moving. He weaved his way through the crowd until he was able to crouch at Hound's side.

"What are you doing here?" Hound asked lowly, wise enough not to use Jazz's designation in such a crowded place. His voice was rough, like gravel in a blender.

"None of your business," Jazz replied in a similarly low tone. "Where's Bluestreak?"

Hound's gaze darkened. "Decepticons have him." The medic touched raw neural wires, causing Hound to spasm violently. His hand shot out, clamping down on Jazz's arm. "Blue… he won't last long."

Jazz stared down at the hand that held him like a manacle. Hound's strained faceplate was etched with desperation.

"They'll _kill_ him."

Jazz dug his claws into the scout's hand and peeled the limb off. "Blue will be fine."

Hound shook his head, his whole frame shuddering. "The Autobots… won't get him in time."

For some Primus damned reason that Jazz did _not_ want to think about, those words struck a chord in him. Frag it all. When did he become such a sucker for sob stories? It wasn't his job to clean up after Autobot screw ups anymore. He was free. He was supposed to be getting _away_ from stupid slag like this. But then he thought of Bluestreak, who talked too much and was probably one of the most annoying bots Jazz had ever met... and there was a quality about the bot that was hard to name. He smiled and was always polite. Once you tuned out his talking, he wasn't too annoying. He sort of grew on a bot much in the same fashion that some cancerous tumour might.

Besides, Bluestreak was ex-Security Response… like Prowl.

Aw, frag.

Much to his own surprise, Jazz heard himself sighing the words, "Ah'll get him."

Relief melted onto Hound's faceplate. Maybe the mech was a bit delusional from his damages, but he started to cry. "Thank you. _Thank you_."

"Whatever," Jazz grumbled. "It's not like Ah had anything better ta do."


	20. Chapter 20

Here's another chapter for you all to enjoy! I don't have much else to say, so… um, yep, more Jazz and Prowl craziness. ^_^

Major thanks to the reviewers of the last chapter: **Kai-Chan94, CNightJoy, Jinx, LionLover190, Nightblooming Orchid, renegadewriter8, Peacewish, MandaMelon, Daklog73, Anon, femme4prime, BoredTech, FoghornLeghorn83, Bluebird Soaring, Optimus Bob, Gatekat, A Lurker, Darkeyes17, Faecat, Xenophobic Doll, phoebe turner, Juzu, AriRashKae, Gilded Orchid, abarai-san, smoking caramels, SwedishDragon, mdnytryder, Pruhana, Sideslip, DitzyMusicLover, xdragonslayerx, Midnight Marquis, JenEvan, chaitea16, 1bloodtempest, ChaosGarden, UsagiLovesDuochan, Got Buttermilk, Chloo**, and **Guardian Moon Dragon**. You guys are the absolute best, you know that? You all deserve hugs, but since I can't personally deliver a hug, you'll have to settle for a new chapter. =P

Read, Review, and Enjoy~!

**Chapter 20**

A knock came at the door, startling Prowl from the distraction of his thoughts. He looked up, discovering his office door open and the Special Ops commander standing there. Quickly, Prowl jerked up and tried to hide the evidence of his consideration. It was Jazz's old visor, the one he had managed to shatter during their first secret training session. He should have thrown it out when he had the chance, but he'd kept it as some sort of twisted trophy. Blackhawk's even gaze lingered on the cracked visor before it was stashed from sight. The two commanders met each others gazes; Prowl schooled his features into a mask, while Blackhawk stared blandly with no indication of his thoughts.

There was silence for a very long time. Prowl refused to offer greetings and Blackhawk did not intone apologies for his interruption. They revved at the same time. Finally, one of them blinked. Blackhawk was the first to say something.

"First Aid's back with the recon team," announced the Special Ops commander.

Prowl arched an optic ridge. "You came all this way to tell me that?" He hid the annoyance from his tone, but he felt the irritation nonetheless. There was no tactical advantage in knowing such a thing, though he supposed he should be relieved to know that the group of Autobots were safely back home. If that was all Blackhawk had come to tell him, then he could have shared the message through a transmission rather then expend the energy to come to his office.

"I thought you might like to hear what Hound had to say when he got in," said the saboteur.

"What might that be?" Prowl asked, straightening subtly. He assumed that the information would be sensitive tactical information much needed to formulate a proper rescue mission to extract Bluestreak. Something of _that_ nature made much more sense in bringing Blackhawk to his office.

Strangely, the mech offered a half-smile. "Jazz was at the Neutral camp."

Prowl's reaction was too immediate to hide. He jerked straighter, frame tensing. A moment later, he realized his mistake and tried to settle himself back into his original state. Regardless of his attempts, it was too late to hide what had already been seen. Blackhawk had witnessed the reaction as much as he had seen Prowl contemplating Jazz's visor; he was too polite, or else too shrewd, to say anything of the matter.

"And this is important because…?" Prowl prompted, forcing his tone to remain bland.

Blackhawk tilted his shoulders up slowly. "I thought it was quite a coincidence, wouldn't you say?"

"Depending on what you define as a coincidence," Prowl replied tightly. "Where Jazz is or isn't is no longer the concern of the Autobots. That being said, is there any particular significance in knowing his location?"

Blackhawk's optic ridges slowly rose so that his faceplate expressed cool surprise. "I would think this information is significant, yes."

"Do enlighten me," Prowl intoned.

The cool surprise on the saboteur's faceplate turned into something else that Prowl did not have a name for. "Jazz apparently informed Hound that he would rescue Bluestreak on his own."

Prowl stared, then blinked very slowly. "Are you sure?"

"Hound was quite adamant of the fact," Blackhawk confirmed. "I thought he might have been delirious, but First Aid assures me that Hound is in his right mind."

Prowl sat back and processed the information. Jazz had volunteered of his own volition to aid them, even after he expressed his desire to cut ties with them. That was… extremely unexpected of him. Albeit, Jazz had the uncanny talent of always doing what was least expected. Strange as it was to admit, it was a relief to know where Jazz had gone off to. It was also a relief to know that Bluestreak's chances of survival had just gone up a great deal.

Prowl found his gaze wandering back to Blackhawk, who offered another half-smile, this one uncommonly warm.

"I just thought that you might like to know," he said before turning into the hall and disappearing.

Prowl revved quietly, left alone to his own thoughts once again. Jazz… was still helping them. A smidgeon of concern drifted through him. Jazz was good, yes, but there was the possibility that he could use assistance. From his subspace pocket, Prowl withdrew the tracer Jazz had given him and considered it.

* * *

What the Autobots had first supposed to be a small interloping camp on the borderlands between Iacon and Axiom Nexus turned out to be a much larger affair. It was an established miniature base, complete with an enforced outer perimeter wall and multiple watchful cameras and sensors dotting the area. The Decepticons had been especially shrewd in constructing this endeavour, having managed to keep it from the Autobots for so long. A lot of the major work was already finished on the compound, with only outlying buildings left to be completed. It was a damn disconcerted sight to have something so incredibly dangerous lying so innocuously between two Autobot territories.

To be in the borderlands was both a precarious spot to be located, caught between two Autobot territories, and a valuable vantage place from which the Autobots could be spied on closely. The geography of the land was to the Decepticons' advantage, seeing as the territories of Cybertron were separated from each other by intentional gorges incorporated into the landscape from centuries of building layer atop of layer of buildings. The gorges were deep enough that an aerial would have trouble seeing clearly to the bottom. The depth made it wholly dangerous for a recon team to go all the way down to assess the bottom.

Jazz was neither impressed with the construction of the offending base nor in the mood to play nicely with anyone who happened to get in his way. Indeed, he was in a rather foul mood. His defection from Iacon base and his continued indecision concerning the conditions of his life exacerbated his need for violence. Lots and lost of violence; physical or psychological, it didn't matter. An outlet for his frustration was sorely needed.

Much to his satisfaction, being with the Autobots so long had not diminished his talents in the least. He was able to get into the base with relative ease. The small size of the compound worked in his favour. The population of the base was small, meaning less of a chance of stray optics catching sight of Jazz. Plus, it was easier to hack a small mainframe than it was to hack an immense compound database like the ones that supported the main Decepticon strongholds.

He encountered resistance on only two counts during his initial break in, appearing in the form of two low-ranking Decepticon warriors. Both were ignorant of Jazz's identity, signing their death warrants the moment they attacked. His fight with them was brief and unsatisfying, neither presenting any kind of significant challenge. The engagement resulted in the violent death of one combatant when Jazz ripped open his chest and tore his sparkcase out. The panic that followed in the other Decepticon required Jazz to chase after him, struggling briefly before decapitating the bot so that his screams did not draw any unwanted attention.

He felt no remorse in their murders.

Lingering over the oozing frames, Jazz felt a giddy kind of freedom he'd thought he had lost. He could feel the wonderful rush of insanity was it whirled back into his consciousness, presenting him with a thousand possibilities now laying at his fingertips. He didn't have to be there for Bluestreak. Bluestreak was just one lowly Autobot who meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. There were countless things for Jazz to do now. He could kill everyone, hack the base, blow it up, _do whatever he wanted_. No more stupid Autobot rules. He could kill as he pleased and not have to answer to anyone. Just staring down at the energon congealing on his hands, he felt better than he had in a long time. The world suddenly made sense again. This was what he was supposed to be doing, not pretending to be something he wasn't.

Primus, he hadn't realized how far from himself he'd strayed until he finally came back.

A sharp laugh burst from him, a sound that would send shivers down any Cybertronian's back.

Jazz also recognized that two dead frames were an awful waste of perfectly good parts. He sparred a moment to steal some useful things off them- their weapons, their optics, small sections of their armour or innards that could fit into his subspace pocket. After that, he drained their processors of useful information. It was too sloppy of him to leave their dismembered frames lying about where they could be found so easily, so Jazz stashed them away where they would not be found. The information they'd surrendered to Jazz was not as useful as he would have liked; they were new to the base and apparently did not know where Bluestreak was being kept. That did not deter Jazz, happy to seek out the command center and cause some much needed havoc.

With their memories, he found his way to the small command center where a single mech was on duty. The room itself was cramped, barely big enough to fit a group of five; the walls were crowded with monitors of all kinds, the floor space consumed by consoles. The nameless mech went rigid as he felt the ice of a blade press into his neck between two slates of armour. Jazz let his dampening field drop so that the full impact of who he was became apparent. This bot was from Straxis, had skirted around Jazz in the halls of that base, and now started to cry when he realized his death was imminent.

"That's right, ya know what's gonna happen," Jazz purred into his audio. With one hand, he stroked the side of the mech's head, perversely gentle just to make the situation so much worse. He savoured the increased panic radiating from his victim.

"J-Jazz… you… you…"

"Didn't think ya'd ever see meh again, did ya?"

The poor bot started wheezing, his frame wracked with silent, violent sobs. One hand rose to the controls, trying to alert the base to the intruder. Jazz was quicker. His blade shot out and pierced the mech's hand, pinning it to the console. He clamped his free hand over the mech's mouthplates to muffle the scream.

"Shouldn't have tried that," Jazz admonished, continuing to purr. This felt so good. So right. This was the way things were supposed to be. He was always in control. He trailed his claws down the side of the nameless mech's faceplate. "Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Easy way- ya tell meh where Bluestreak is and then Ah kill ya. Hard way is Ah kill ya now and rip the information from your dead frame. Your choice."

Unable to contain his sobbing anymore, an awful noise burst from the bot. "Don't kill me! Please, don't kill me! I don't want to die!"

Jazz spun the mech around on his swivelling chair so they could look into each others' optics. There was undisguised fear in the bot's optics- weak, useless, pathetic fear. And all the Decepticon could see in Jazz through the white visor was nothingness. White death staring down at him with unblinking opitcs. Jazz's mouthplates curled into a perverse smile, madness flirting at the edges.

"That wasn't one of the options."

"Please-! Please, don't-!"

The mech was dead before he even realized a second blade had been drawn, slashing through his neck. Pressurized energon sprayed out in a hot stream, coating the console, screens, floor, and Jazz. Light faded to dark in the dead mech's optics. Jazz turned the limp head one way, then the other, still attached as it was by wires to the rest of the frame. He took what was useful of the frame- again with the weapons and optics, and drained the processor. Tossing the useless frame aside, Jazz dove into the mainframe of the base and gathered what he could. Briefly, he considered the tactical advantage his newly liberated information would be worth to the Autobots.

Then he growled and shoved the thought aside.

Instead, he poured as many viruses as he could into every virtual nook and cranny of the place, hoping that the mainframe was connected to other Decepticon bases. If he could infect the whole lot, it would make his orn so much better.

His trip to the brig was quick and only delayed by one Decepticon. Once in the holding pen, he spared no time in disposing of the guard. A single slash to the neck and a stab to the chest, through the spark. Energy arced from his chest, energon spraying from his neck in a sickly warm tide. There was no time to linger over the frame, not when the whole corridor of the brig was ringing with the sound of hysterical screaming and sobbing. Normally, Jazz would have enjoyed such noise. Had he been the cause of it, his pleasure of it would have been tenfold. He would have been plotting a thousand ways to make that screaming louder. However, in hearing the screaming now, it sent ice through him. Suddenly his mind was no longer spinning, but screeching to a skidding halt, the world coming back into stark focus.

A hand shot out to the wall to steady him, finding himself momentarily dizzy.

He knew who was screaming.

"Bluestreak!" he shouted automatically. "Blue, it's meh!"

Primus, he was shocked by how chilling the sniper's screams were. An endless tide of ebbing and flowing noise, wailing and screaming and sobbing all mixed into one. Jazz did not enjoy this noise at all. He did not enjoy the terror. It made his chest ache.

"Blue, can ya hear meh? Ah'm here ta get ya out!"

There came no acknowledgement. Bluestreak's howling did not diminish.

It was a small brig, featuring only four small cells. There were bars on the cages instead of energy force fields. At the sound of Jazz's voice, several bots appeared at the bars of the other cages, their expressions desperate and wild.

"Get us out of here!" begged a green femme, her expression desperate. "Please, get us out!"

The others in the cages begged for their lives and freedom.

Jazz stared. This wasn't in the plan. He never signed on to save anyone beyond Bluestreak. Without looking at any of the others, he ran down the aisle to the last cage, grasping the bars and shaking them. Bluestreak was on the dirty floor, grasping his head as he rolled and convulsed violently. Dread passed through Jazz's spark as a terrible thought struck him. It was a memory loop, forcing Bluestreak to relive the worst moments of his life over and over. He knew of a few bots who could do this, and he did not wish to encounter any of them at the moment.

"Blue! Can ya hear meh! Bluestreak, say something!"

"He can't!" said the green femme who'd spoken to him first. "There's a mech here with a single yellow optic! He did something to that Autobot when he was first brought in."

Yellow optic.

_Shockwave. _

Frag! That was just Jazz's luck to stumble upon Shockwave's latest den of horrors. Shockwave wasn't a well known mech. Megatron liked to keep him as his personal sick secret. Jazz was aware of the so-called scientist through all the reports he'd hacked from Megatron's personal files. The things that mech did in the name of 'science'… They were sick, twisted, _wrong_ things. A much as he hated to admit it, Jazz looked like a cuddly fluff-ball compared to Shockwave.

"Please, that mech will be back any breem! Get us out of here!" begged the green femme.

Jazz ignored her, now intent on getting his aft out of there as quickly as possible. He shot out the lock on Bluestreak's cage, throwing open the door and attempting to drag the sniper out. The extra movement and noise only exacerbated Bluestreak's condition. His frame bowed backwards, screaming at a glass-shattering pitch. In this state, Bluestreak would be no use to anyone. Jazz would not be able to fight his way out if he was dragging dead weight behind him.

"Ah don't have time for this," Jazz snarled. Wrenching out into the aisle, Jazz raised his gun and shot the locks out on the other three cells. There were seven bots in total who spilled out of the cells. They all huddled together, shaking out of fear. Their wide wite optics looked upon Jazz with the utmost terror shining in them. Not a single one of them had a signal modulator. Neutrals, the whole useless lot of them. Jazz's luck just kept getting worse and worse.

"If ya wanna get out of here alive, then you're gonna have ta carry him out," Jazz ordered, jerking his head in Bluestreak's direction.

They stared at him blankly.

"Damn it, move!" Jazz roared.

Most of them jumped and screamed, while some of them started to cry. The only one to react reasonably was the green femme; she grabbed two mechs and shoved them towards Bluestreak's cell. "Listen to the bot! Carry him!" Her gaze swung to Jazz. "Got anything if we have to fight?"

Jazz withdrew the weapons he confiscated and tossed them into any set of hands that looked steady enough to hold them. "Think ya can handle those?"

The green femme considered her blaster, then nodded determinedly. "Yeah, this'll be no problem. I'm Moonracer, by the way."

Jazz jerked his head in a curt nod. Since he wasn't about to share his real designation, he said the first one that popped into his mind: "Prowl."

Moonracer wrinkled her olfactory sensor. The designation didn't quite fit the minibot who'd said it. Given the situation, she didn't linger on it. "Thanks for getting us out, Prowl."

"We're not out yet," Jazz warned. Bluestreak's screaming and thrashing only got worse as he was held between the two Neutral mechs. Jazz levelled a hard look on the bot. "Sorry, Blue- Ah gotta do this." He raised his hand to the back of the sniper's neck and released a powerful magnetic burst. It overpowered the bot's neural net, causing him to first arch and spasm, then he went limp and silent. Still conscious, but paralyzed. "Alright, now we gotta get out of here. Stay close."

One of the Decepticons must have realized that something was amiss. An alarm blared to life. Jazz ran at the head of his small group, ready for anything to come around any corner. When a bot came running at them from the end of the hall, it was a short fight before Jazz dispatched of the bot. Quick but brutal, shooting the bot straight through his spark, causing the Neutrals behind him to scream and whimper. Violence was obviously not their forte. Another Decepticon bellowed and came charging down an intersecting hall. Jazz spun to meet the threat, but Moonracer raised her blaster and shot the mech in the chest. She then shot the supports of the hallway, causing it to collapse. Unlike her fellows, she barely blinked when shooting out the supports… though she cringed when the Decepticon was crushed to death.

Jazz raised both optic ridges at the Neutral.

"I used to be a miner," she said shakily. "Demolitions."

Jazz smirked, impressed. He summoned the group to keep moving. As they got closer to the exit, the Decepticons flocking to them grew more vicious. One of the Neutrals got grabbed. It was a poor little thing, mircobot. Jazz's first instinct was to forget the bot and get the rest of them out, but he saw Moonracer wheeling around and knew she'd try to fight.

"Get out of here!" Jazz roared, shoving the femme away. "Ah'll get the bot!" He launched himself at the Decepticon who held the microbot. In self-preservation, the 'Con tried to use his hostage as a shield. Jazz grabbed the Neutral by an ankle and yanked him away, dislocating the bot's shoulders in the process. The Decepticon went down with a gunshot to the head, execution style. With that done, Jazz grabbed the sobbing microbot and threw him over his shoulder, bolting for the gapping doors.

"Over here!" Moonracer screamed, running backwards as she covered her group as they ran for the gates.

Jazz took off after them, shooting with his free arm. The towering, heavy gates were locked when they got to them, but there was a gatehouse they could get through. The bot inside was easy to take care of. Jazz had the honour of shooting in the faceplate. One Neutral was shot in the process, the plasma blast easily burning away the plating on his shoulder and arm. It was a desperate squeeze to get the whole group through the small, narrow passage. In a wild cascade, they were free. Gunfire chased after them, crashing through the gatehouse and soaring over the compound's walls. Jazz took cover behind the walls, twisting into the entrance of the gatehouse to shoot through it, taking down every Decepticon he could get a lock on.

And then a curious thing happened. Jazz prepared to return fire once more, only to catch sight of the Decepticons. They'd stopped shooting, now turning their backs to the fight and running. As much as Jazz would have liked the thought of them running because of him, he knew it wasn't true. A cold, bitter wave of dread filled him. There was one mech who could have them all running scared.

Beside him, he heard Moonracer gasp. "Prowl," she whispered, her small hand grabbing him in a vice grip. "Prowl, it's the mech with the yellow optic."

Jazz steeled himself, turning slowly to face the towering Decepticon standing just beyond the gatehouse. He was several times larger than Jazz, a towering monstrosity. There was no faceplate, just a single yellow optic blazing from the center of his head; it adjusted and readjusted as it focused on Jazz. Jazz slid the microbot on his shoulder into Moonracer's arms, moving to the very front of his ragtag group. He tensed, readying his gun in one hand and his blade in the other.

"_Shockwave." _

"That material is my property," said Shockwave in that monotone voice of his. It was similar to Soundwave's, but somehow much worse. There was no spark behind the words being spoken. "You will relinquish all of it back into my custody immediately."

_Material_. As if they weren't even Cybertronian.

"Ya really wanna risk a fight with meh? Ah could rip ya apart," Jazz snarled, backing up a step to make sure he had his group covered. As much as he hated to admit it, he was not as confident as he sounded. Shockwave was one of the few bots in the universe who made him uncomfortable. There were so many unknowns that it was no guarantee that Jazz would win if they fought. Shockwave was truly all kinds of nasty.

For several long moments, Shockwave sized up his competition. A thousand calculations were probably running through his mind- logistics and statistics. Every form of mathematical calculation, comparing himself to Jazz in order to determine who was better, who was worth more. It was too much like Prowl. Jazz found himself recoiling from the thought. Prowl was nothing like this fragger.

"There is no reason for your actions here. You have no connection to these bots. You should not be protecting them," Shockwave pointed out in that disturbing monotone of his. "You are an anomaly. Leave immediately."

"They're _mine_, Shockwave. Ah'll take ya apart before Ah let ya have them."

Shockwave was unfazed by the announcement. He was not easily deterred from his own plans, even with the risk of death thrown in his faceplate. He took a step forward, prepared to fight Jazz. He may have been one sick and twisted scientist, but he'd ripped into enough minds to have stolen their fighting skills. He was confident that he could engage Jazz and win.

Moonracer levelled her shaking blaster in Shockwave's direction. The two other Neutrals wielding guns did the same.

"Come any closer and we'll blow your head off!" Moonracer yelled.

Shockwave paused, forced to reassess the situation. It was not just one bot he was fighting now, but four. The odds were not in his favour. He could not risk substantial injury when there was still much he had to do. Giving up eight material sources would be a small price to pay for his life. It would not such a great loss; he had much more material stored away elsewhere.

That single yellow optic focused on Jazz. "Megatron will hear of this."

"Yeah, tell him Ah'll come for him one of these orns," Jazz snarled. "When Ah do, Ah'll rip his spark out."

Shockwave inclined his head, then he transformed into a jet and took off. He winged out of the gorge and was gone from sight. In his wake, there was uneasy silence. Hesitant relief started to flood in. Several bots heaved terrified sobs, collapsing on the ground in shivering heaps.

"Are you alright?" Moonracer asked softly, touching Jazz's tense shoulder.

"Fine," Jazz growled, shrugging away from her touch.

"He seemed to know you," Moonracer observed. "Who was he?"

"No one you'd want ta know," Jazz replied darkly. "C'mon, we gotta keep moving."

Fully trusting of their saviour, the seven Neutrals got to their feet and set off in the direction Jazz pointed. Bluestreak was still propped between two mechs, his limp head lolling. His optics flashed bright and dim, rolling around in their sockets; he was till trapped in his own mind. As soon as they found shelter, Jazz would have to get into his mind and see how bad the loop was. If Shockwave was the one to put it in place, then the sooner the loop was severed, the better.

It was difficult travelling in such an awkward group. Jazz was used to moving quickly, usually on his own. On the few occasions he'd worked with Autobots Special Ops, they'd been nearly as quick and efficient as he at moving about. The newly liberated Neutrals had no such talent in their repertoire. They were slow, held back by their inherent lack of grace in such uneven surroundings. Bluestreak's presence further hindered them. Jazz was forced to move at a fraction of his regular speed, constantly backtracking in order to cover their trail and make sure they weren't being followed.

What the Neutrals lacked in grace, they made up for in gratitude. With the littlest provocation, they spilled their secrets to Jazz. It was a novel new experience for Jazz to have any kind of Cybertronian, let alone a whole group of them, so openly trusting of him. The feeling left him disconcerted, distinctly uncomfortable. Nevertheless, he gathered what he could from them. Aside from the seven Jazz had released, it was revealed that there had been an additional four to their number. Collectively, they had all been captives for several orns, some more than others. Shockwave had come to them every couple of orns, selecting one bot to be taken away. That bot was never seen again, though when the nights grew silent some of the caged Neutrals swore they heard screaming.

Their stories confirmed that Shockwave was doing experiments again.

Even the darkest side of Jazz shuddered at the thought.

He also learned that they assumed him to be some kind of mercenary, paid for by the Autobots to rescue Bluestreak. They came to the conclusion that Jazz was little threat to them, despite his fearsome skills on the battlefield. Because his optics were white and he had no faction modulator, he was as Neutral as they were. After their torment and terror at the hands of the Decepticons, the whole lot of them were all too willing to believe the best of the bot who had rescued them. He had become their hero.

Because it suited Jazz to have the Neutrals believe he was no threat, he let them continue with their faulty assumptions. He never let himself forget that he was no one's hero.

Moonracer walked beside Jazz as often as possible, perfectly at ease to be with him even after she'd seen him kill so brutally. She was honest as she spoke with him, expressing her relief that the Autobots had sent a Neutral rather than one of their own. She'd heard many things about the Autobot warriors that made her wary. Although she believed in Optimus Prime's ideals, it was warriors like Ironhide or the Twins that made her extremely nervous. Ironhide was rumoured to be a titanic brute with guns all over his frame. The twins were worse, supposedly mindless berserker monsters who killed everything they touched and had to be locked away in cages when they weren't on the battlefield. Worst of all was the fact that the Autobots now had Jazz working for them, whom she believed to be one of the most terrifying creatures on the planet. There were many stories around the Neutral camps of what he had done for the Decepticons, and now how he worked for the Autobots. Most of the stories were terribly exaggerated, none of them flattering.

Jazz said nothing of the matter. He maintained an air that he was keeping a lookout for anything unusual. In truth, he was simply confused about the situation he found himself in. Getting Bluestreak he could understand, sort of. What was he supposed to do with everyone else? Who was he supposed to be in a situation like this?

It took several joors, but they eventually found a place to hide. It was several levels up from the bottom of the gorge, hidden from sight by a mess of abandoned buildings. There was only dim ambient light filtering in from the cracks in the ground of the level above. Their shelter was not much more than a reinforced warehouse that stank of rust and rot.

Two dead frames were found lying quietly nearby. Jazz knew the Neutrals needed energy, so he dragged the frames off where no one could see and drained them of their energon; most of it was congealed, but some was still good. The good thing about Cybertronians was the fluids that supported their frames were universal and constantly able to be recycled. When he returned, he did not tell anyone where he got the energon. The Neutrals were too grateful to ask about it.

Moonracer got to work on the injured microbot, attempting to reset his arms into their shoulder sockets.

"Ah thought ya were in demolitions," Jazz said, watching her progress. She looked like she knew what she was doing.

"I was," Moonracer replied without looking up. "I was also the medic. It was a small mining company."

Jazz nodded, glancing in Bluestreak's direction. "Is there anything ya can do for him?"

Moonracer sighed, her expression turning weary. "No, sorry. I was only programmed to work on physical injuries. Damages to the processor are beyond me…"

"Alright, then Ah'll have ta take a look," Jazz said, much to the femme's surprise. She watched as Jazz approached Bluestreak's twitching frame. In the joors that had passed, he had gained back some movement, now able to twitch and whimper. One Neutral mech sat with him, stroking his head in hopes to offer comfort. When Jazz crouched down, the Neutral looked up.

"When he was first dragged in, he fought so hard," said the mech. "He saw us in the cages and he wanted to get us out. I've never seen anyone fight so hard." He sighed. "They had to call in that bot in with the yellow optic."

"He's lucky Shockwave didn't kill him," Jazz said quietly, flicking open Bluestreak's interface panel. "If ya can hear meh, Blue, Ah'm gonna try ta help ya."

Bluestreak did not hear him.

He entered into the sniper's mind and was immediately made aware of the chaos whirling within. Bluestreak was in no condition to resist unwanted visitors in his mind; his every faculty was laid out freely for Jazz to peruse. At the forefront was the vision of a massacre set to play on a loop. It was the orn that the capitol of Crystal City had been demolished. Jazz saw it through Bluestreak's optics; he had been the first to see the oncoming attack, but had been too scared the raise the alarm. As the Decepticons descended on the city, helpless bots were wiped out. Megatron had decided to hit Cybertron where it would truly hurt, taking out the most beautiful and peaceful of all the territory capitols. He demonstrated his might that orn in destroying the entire population. Bluestreak had been forced to witness the death of all he held dear, and he was forced to live with the knowledge that he was the only survivor. Little bots crushed beneath the sharp feet of Seekers. Others run over by tank treads in the streets. Smoke and flame backlighting running bots, their screams intermingled with the ringing sound of shattering crystal. Bomb blasts exploded in every direction. Chaos and panic choked their air. The loop played over and over, becoming more emotionally charged with each play.

This was the kind of thing Jazz used to do all the time to Autobots who were captured and brought to him. Putting a loop in their minds made them easy prey, breaking down their resistance with brutal efficiency. Prowl had never allowed him to get so deep into his mind, but Bluestreak would have presented no challenge to someone like Shockwave. Now faced with the results of one such loop, Jazz could only feel disturbed. Not for his own past actions, but for the present. Bluestreak may have been an annoying half-bit, but he did not deserve something like this.

Ending a memory loop was not a pretty thing. It was never a clean cut endeavour. While Jazz had plenty of experience creating them, he had little experience ending the agony. Finding the main stream of data supplying the loop, Jazz sawed through it like taking a saw blade to a thick rope. His consciousness warred with Bluestreak's weaker one. Data frayed. The loop weakened. Finally, the tension snapped and the loop shattered with one last lingering scream. Memories and data files scattered everywhere in Bluestreak's head. His frame tensed, a pitiful sound falling from between him mouthplates, and then he sighed and fell into unconsciousness.

Jazz backed out of the sniper's mind, rocking back on his heels. There was a lot of damage left behind. It would take Ratchet a long time to sort out Bluestreak's mind, and even then there'd be a chance that Blue would never be the same again. Jazz had only had an astrosecond to glance at the dampening programs that had been put in place the first time around so that Bluestreak could keep on functioning with his memories intact without going insane. This time around… there was no telling if Blue's mind would simply give up and implode on itself.

"He'll be okay now?" wondered the Neutral mech.

"Probably not," Jazz sighed, not bothering to lie.

There was a commotion at the entrance of their hideaway that drew Jazz's attention. One of the bots standing guard suddenly became hysterical. Wary of what was happening, Jazz drew his weapons, exhausted but still ready to fight. He pushed his way outside, backing the Neutrals into the semi-safe confines of the warehouse. Moonracer peeked out the door, her blaster charged.

Through the gloom came a flash of red. Following close on its heels was a brief flitting of unmistakable gold. Blue optics. Autobot signatures. The pair came into sight quickly enough, looking the same as they ever had. Strange and unaffected. Sideswipe was mildly intrigued by the settings he found himself in, staring around with a vague smirk on his faceplate. Sunstreaker stared straight ahead, his handsome faceplate unsmiling as always. They were smeared in ash and fresh energon.

Jazz relaxed. He was surprisingly relieved to see such familiar faceplates. It was a shock to see them at all, but Jazz found that he did not want to turn them away.

Moonracer tensed. _"The Twins,"_ she hissed, raising her blaster.

Jazz held a hand out to stay her. "They're cool." He focused his gaze on the pair of approaching Autobots. "You're late for the party."

"I think our invitations got lost in the mail," Sideswipe replied, laughing. His dancing gaze slid to Moonracer, widening in surprise. "Looks like you made new friends."

"She's collateral," Jazz informed curtly.

"I'm also a really good shot," Moonracer warned, her finger itching around the trigger.

Sideswipe raised his hands in surrender, impressed that any Neutral would dare raise a blaster to him. Most of them ran away crying when they realized the twins were coming.

"Where's Bluestreak?" Sunstreaker asked sharply. For a very brief moment, there was something in his optics other than ice. It was gone as soon as it came.

"Inside," Jazz replied. "He had a number done ta his mind. Ah did what Ah could but there's a lot of damage left behind. It's stuff Ah can't fix on mah own."

Sunstreaker showed little reaction beyond a tightening around his mouthplates. He made a move to go inside the warehouse, but Moonracer raised her blaster. She was terrified, but not about to let a monster get anywhere near her friends. Sunstreaker stared at the blaster trained on him, a low growl vibrating from him.

"It's alright, Moonracer," Jazz assured. "Just don't piss him off and he won't hurt anyone. He's here to help."

Moonracer stayed reluctant for several moments, then dropped her blaster. She stepped aside to let Sunstreaker into the warehouse. Her gaze lingered on Jazz, flickering worriedly to Sideswipe. "Are you sure you're going to be okay out here with him?"

"Ah could kick his aft any orn," Jazz replied truthfully. Sideswipe laughed.

"Just be careful, Prowl," Moonrace said, following on Sunstreaker's heels. She raised her blaster again, just in case. Within the warehouse, several gasps and wimpers came from the Neutrals when they realized one of the twins was among them. Jazz rolled his optics, regretting the moment he'd let the Neutrals out of their cages. They were damn embarrassing. He stuck his head inside the doorway to inform the lot that Sunstreaker meant no harm, but it was probably for the best that no one make optic contact or get within arm's reach of him. When Jazz pulled his head back out and turned to Sideswipe, the mech's optic ridges had shot so far up that it looked like they would fly off his forehead.

"Who are you and what have you done with Jazz?" were the first words out of Sideswipe's mouthplates.

"If ya don't get that look off your faceplate, Ah'll smack your faceplate off your head," Jazz snapped.

Sideswipe liked the way he looked, so he schooled his features... sort of. Mostly, he just looked to the side so only his profile could be seen. He watched Jazz from the corner of his optic. "So...?"

"So?" Jazz repeated, glaring.

"_Prowl_, huh?" drawled the red mech.

"Ah couldn't very well tell them mah real designation, now could Ah?" Jazz shot back acidly.

"The real Prowl is going to get a kick out of this," Sideswipe snickered.

"Not if he never hears about it," Jazz growled, all but threatening to rip into the red mech's mind and wipe him of every memory he possessed.

"Fine, fine, he'll never hear of it. I'll just laugh about it privately," Sideswipe sighed. He would laugh about it. A lot. He laced his fingers behind his back and rocked on his heels. "So, you know, I didn't think this was your kind of scene." Okay, maybe the whole bit where the saboteur was covered in energone and bits of gore was typical, but everything else? Him being the leader of a pack of defenceless, wimpy Neutrals? It was like suddenly falling into an alternate universe.

Knowing exactly what Sideswipe was refering to, Jazz scowled. "The green one's useful."

"And the rest of them...?"

There was no answer, because Jazz didn't have one.

Sideswipe canted his head but said nothing. This was one of those moment where he knew better than to press his luck, because it would probably get him gutted.

"Come on, we have other things ta talk about," Jazz growled, jerking his head in the direction he wanted Sideswipe to walk. He didn't want anyone overhearing something they weren't supposed to. They walked a short distance, far enough not to be overheard but close enough to keep the place in sight.

"Ya got ta the base, huh?" Jazz enquired, gesturing to Sideswipe's less-than-pristine appearance.

Sideswipe's good humour faded into a more serious expression. He brushed his hands down his armour, scraping away the layer of energon and ash clinging to him. "Yeah, we were there. Not for long, though. You did quite the number to it- by the time me and Sunny got there, most bots had vacated. We thought it best to kill the ones who were still there and alive. Blew the place up before we left, just to be sure of a job well done."

"Good," Jazz replied. He levelled a suspicious stare on the red mech. "And how did ya find meh?"

"That was the easy part," Sideswipe said, smirking. "We had a little help." From subspace, he withdrew something and set it into Jazz's palm.

To his surprise, Jazz realized it was a tracer. The very tracer he'd given Prowl.


	21. Chapter 21

Argh, darn you Fanfiction! Why must you thwart me? *shakes fist* I've spent the last two weeks completely locked out of my editing options in my account. Haven't been able to update worth shit. It's been killing me something awful! Sure, the lock out gave me a chance to catch up on some other things, but still... I hate it when I know something isn't working and there's nothing I can do to fix it! O_ *sigh* At least I found a way around it now, hence the updating of this chapter. It's quite the electric chapter, if I do say so myself. Here's hoping you all enjoy!

My sincerest thanks to the amazing reviewers of the last chapter: **Optimus Bob, FoghornLeghorn83, renegadewriter8, MandaMelon, sockets, femme4prime, BoredTech, Peacewish, Darkeyes17, animelover1993, Gatekat, 1bloodtempest, Faecat, Midnight Marquis, lilyoftheval5, Prancing Tiger86, phoebe turner, ChaosGarden, Christina, Bluebird Soaring, taralynden, smoking caramels, CNightJoy, Anon, Thundergryphon, Daklog73, DitzyMusicLover, kurotorachan, Pruhana, abarai-san, Dawnslight101, xdragonslayerx, A Lurker, Nightblooming Orchid, Sideslip, Xenophobic Doll, Uniasus, UsagiLovesDuochan,** and **chaitea16**! You are all truly amazing people deserving of all the greatest things in the universe~

This chapter is specially dedicated to **abarai-san**, who wrote a song inspired by chapter 18 of this story. If anyone wants to listen to the song, the link is included in her review of chapter 20. It's so gorgeous! I'm humbled and awed that anyone would be inspired so greatly by my writing to create anything so beautiful. **Abarai-san**, you are an amazing person and I can never thank you enough!

Read, Review, and Enjoy~

**Chapter 21**

More at ease than he had been throughout the last couple of orns, Prowl worked steadily on the small mountain of backed up work until there came a knock at his office door. He expected Blackhawk, who stopped in every couple of joors ever since he had passed on the information that Jazz was heading a rescue mission. As sorely tempted as Prowl was to go out and aid Jazz, he had to recognize the fact that he was a commander and did not have the freedom to run off whenever he wished. Blackhawk's presence was an unusual reprieve from such distress. Despite the fact that both bots were slightly socially inept, their exchanges with each other were comfortable.

Prowl looked up to summon the mech into his office, only to discover that it was not Blackhawk who had come knocking. It was Optimus Prime.

Accordingly, Prowl rose. "Optimus Prime, please come in."

With a nod, the Prime came in. He did not look as he usually did. His faceplate was uncommonly stern, beyond the worry that Prowl would have attributed to Bluestreak's capture. He did not sit down, but remained standing near the door. The lines of his frame were tense. His height over Prowl gave him a distinctly intimidating edge.

"Why aren't the twins in the brig, Prowl?" Optimus suddenly asked, lacking any of his usual pleasantries.

Prowl felt his spark skip, but kept his expression mild. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"The twins, Prowl," Optimus repeated, enunciating each syllable sharply. "They're not in the brig."

"I see," Prowl replied, his faceplate betraying nothing of his inner thoughts.

"I am here because they are not in the brig," said the Prime, as if that fact were not perfectly clear already.

"I can't imagine what that has to do with me," Prowl replied carefully. That was a lie, of course. The twins not being in the brig had everything to do with him, but Optimus Prime was not to know that. Although his programming warred against such severe insubordination, lying was all he could do to ensure that the events he had set in motion went according to plan.

The Prime's expression darkened, his frown deepening a fraction. "I find that hard to believe, since you were the last one to see them." He crossed his arms over his chest. "You called them to your office earlier, Prowl. I was under the impression that you were assigning their punishment for Sideswipe pressurizing the energon dispensers to soak whoever used them, and Sunstreaker for getting into that fight with Cliffjumper. Can you confirm that their actions are normally grounds for the brig?"

"Yes, it is," Prowl confirmed reluctantly.

"And are you not the one who normally reprimands them? Are they not normally sent to the brig for their usual transgressions?"

"Yes, I am, and yes they are." Under normal circumstances, he would have loved to have locked the pair away for at least a couple of orns. It would have given the base time to recover, and Prowl would have been given several orns free from their disruptive habits. This time around, there had been more important matters at hand than assigning inane punishments that no one would ever learn their lesson from anyways.

"Can you imagine my surprise when I went down there to speak with them, only to find out they weren't there?" Optimus enquired pointedly.

Prowl leaned back a little, his mind racing. "Yes, I can surmise feeling a certain amount of astonishment…" he intoned awkwardly.

"It was more than just astonishment," Optimus pointed out, a hard edge to his words. "It was disconcerting to find them gone, to say the least."

Prowl jerked a quick nod. He obviously had miscalculated Optimus Prime's mood when formulating his less-than-above-board plan. He'd relied on Optimus's forgiving nature to dismiss the matter, which had worked in his favour a number of times in the past. He had not counted on the Prime personally going to the brig to seek out the twins. Usually, Prime liked to speak with them whenever they did something incredibly disruptive or damaging to Iacon, but minor transgressions were left alone. It appeared that statistics and calculating behavioural patterns had failed this time. The Prime did not look ready to let anything go at the moment.

"Sir, perhaps the twins broke out of the brig? It would not be the first time they've ever done that," Prowl suggested carefully.

Optimus's optic ridge rose. "That is what I thought at first. I went to Red Alert to consult the security footage to see what might have happened. What I happened to see was really quite interesting."

"And what might that have been?" Prowl enquired evenly. Internally, he steeled himself for the worst.

"Red Alert and I observed the twins being summoned to your office. They were in here for all but a few breems and then exited. They did not even make it to the brig. Instead, upon leaving this office they immediately made their way out of the building and subsequently left the base. Curious, yes?"

Prowl was silent for a moment, then slowly let out a long draft of air. "I did assign the twins a verbal reprimand and ordered them to the brig for their miscreant behaviour. If they chose to ignore my command, then that is on them." He met the Prime's gaze steadily. "I believe that you are displacing your frustration of Bluestreak's capture on me, which is understandable but unfair. If you were to take a moment to consider-."

"_Enough_, Prowl," Prime ordered, and never had his voice sounded so commanding. Prowl was instantly silent. "I have always had the greatest of respect in your abilities and your reliability to follow the rules in order to keep everyone safe. Just because I choose to have faith in bots and forgive easily does not mean I am a naïve fool."

Prowl flinched, his gaze falling to the floor. He had never once thought of Optimus Prime as a naïve fool, but he could certainly see how one might come to such a conclusion.

Optimus revved deeply, a sound like rolling thunder. "I saw Sunstreaker's and Sideswipe's faceplates when they left. I've seen them devious, but that was not the case this time. They had the looks of bots assigned a mission."

"That is conjecture, sir," Prowl murmured quietly.

"I know what I saw." Prime's gaze flashed severely. "I want to trust you, Prowl. Everything inside me tells me that you are one the most trustworthy bots I have. But there is a very small part of me that worries that you are _lying _to me."

"Sir-!"

"Don't insult me anymore than you already have, Prowl. You sent the twins to go out after Jazz and Bluestreak, didn't you?"

Prowl said nothing. He lifted his chin, meeting the Prime's gaze with the blandest of all his stares. If he could not lie to the Prime, then he would say nothing at all.

"Prowl?" Optimus prompted, expecting an answer.

"Sir," Prowl replied evenly. He would say no more than that.

He had taken a calculated risk in selecting the twins to go after Jazz, equals parts calculation and gamble. They were the most capable and efficient of the Autobot warriors, despite their rampant brutality and unwillingness to listen to their superiors. They were no strangers to breaking rules; their absence could be more easily dismissed than it would be for anyone else. They did not fear Jazz and were unlikely to get in his way. As much as it pained Prowl to admit it, the twins were perfect candidates to be sent out as backup, but to inform anyone else of their purpose would be to sabotage their efforts.

The statistics had all been run, the logic justified, and the risk deemed manageable. It was all, of course, against every protocol in place to protect Autobots on missions such as this. No recon had been done, no backup plans in place, _nothing_. Prowl could very well lose his rank for his insubordination and putting others at risk. But he would not back down this time.

Optimus Prime met the tactician's stare and saw the determination brewing in those steady optics. Determination like that was a rarity to find, a stubbornness that was in equal parts gift and curse. The tactician would not be broken, even when everything warred within him to bow to the Prime. It was, perhaps, the very first time that Prowl had ever shown any evidence of outright defiance of any kind. As always, for all the tactician's actions, there would undoubtedly be a very good reason for his actions now. Optimus could only hope that the immense amount of faith he held in the bot was not misplaced.

After a few too-long moments staring each other down, Prime relented first. His shoulders dropped and air rushed out all of his vents. Prowl, on the hand, remained on guard.

"As you've said, this is all conjecture," Prime admitted quietly, though his voice resonated like a thunderstorm. A frown pulled at his mouthplates. "If you continue to say nothing, I will have only security footage against you. The footage only shows the twins leaving, which they easily could have done of their own free will."

There came nothing but silence to this announcement. Prowl could not decide if he should say anything or not.

Optimus directed a pointed stare to his tactical commander, both optic ridges arching. "Say nothing and I can do nothing."

Prowl could only manage the briefest of nods. The Prime was giving him an out? It seemed unlikely. However, he would take his chances. Perhaps his calculations of Prime's capacity for forgiveness were not incorrect?

"_However,"_ Prime continued, "should anything happen to the bots you've put at risk, I will hold you personally responsible."

For the longest moments, Prowl stood frozen to the spot, processing the situation he had forced himself into. Very stiffly, he bowed to the Prime. "That is… acceptable."

"I'm glad we have an understanding of the matter," Optimus said. "I can only hope that situations like this will not arise in the future. But if they do, I can hope that those involved will do a better job of hiding it from me." His stare lingered on Prowl for an astrosecond longer than necessary, then he turned on his heel and was gone from the office.

Prowl stared after the Prime in a stunned silence. Of all the outcomes he had expected… Well, he was grateful for an ending that did not result with him in the brig for insubordination. As it turned out, lying to the Prime was more difficult than he thought it would be. His processor now ached from the effort. Very slowly, he resumed his seat and tried to get back to work.

Prowl could only hope his own faith in Jazz was not sorely misplaced.

* * *

It was decided that the Neutrals would be dropped off at the nearest camp, where at the same time the twins and Bluestreak could be picked up and returned to Iacon. After the exchange, Jazz would be free to move on. The arrangement suited all parties. As it turned out, Moonracer and two of the other Neutrals were from the camp they were all headed to. With the news of their imminent return home, their moods brightened significantly. Those who were from different camps were simply content to be headed somewhere other than into Shockwave's care. Jazz never did elaborate on who Shockwave was, but all bots seemed to pick up on the fact that the bot with the yellow optic was bad news.

Their journey continued to be an abominably slow one. Driving would have been faster, but Bluestreak's condition prevented them using their alt modes. He was still severely mentally damaged from Jazz severing the memory loop. Although he appeared to recognize faceplates and voices now, he lived more in nightmares than reality. He didn't speak and he didn't recharge. His whimpering was constant; if he was left alone for too long, he would start to thrash violently. His motor controls also appeared to be effected, causing him to suffer seizure-like episodes at strange intervals. No one trusted the sniper to use his alt mode, so they were all bound to walk.

Much to everyone's surprise, Sunstreaker had volunteered to carry Bluestreak. It was disturbing, to say the least, to watch Sunstreaker act so out of character. The Neutrals only seemed to become more uneasy around him, suspecting that Sunstreaker would snap at any moment and kill Bluestreak. Jazz catalogued the behaviour, storing it for possible future blackmail.

The only bot who did not seem perturbed by the golden warrior's unusual thoughtfulness was Sideswipe, who did his best to pretend it wasn't happening. Outwardly, he remained nonchalant for the sake of his reputation. Secretly, he was happy. Long, long ago in their youth, Sunstreaker and Bluestreak had been lovers. There was a sad kindness about Sunstreaker that Sideswipe had thought died the orn Kaon had been bombed… the orn Megatron had taken something important away from the golden mech. Sideswipe would be damned if he ruined a rare moment of seeing his brother care again.

Jazz's attention, for the most part, was elsewhere. He stayed apart from the group, usually in a leading position. He kept an optic out for trouble, but mostly focused on the tracer Sideswipe had given him. _Prowl_ had given his tracer to the twins. Damned, damned, _damned_ Prowl who Jazz never wanted to think about again. He'd sent backup. Fragging tactician sent fragging backup. The twins, of all bots! If Sideswipe had been telling the truth about matters, then Prowl had risked his own rank to break the rules.

Jazz wasn't sure what he felt about that… aside from the coursing anger and frustration burning through him.

Other than that...?

Proud that Prowl had been able to do something so out-of-character?

Confused that the tactician would go this far at all?

Damn that fragger!

Why the hell did he have to use the Primus-damned tracer? He had assumed that Prowl would merely act himself and keep the fragging tracer hidden away like a good little bot and respect Jazz's need for isolation. But no! He just had to _care_! He just had to send the twins to make sure Bluestreak's rescue and return went all right. Urgh! What a mess caring got bots into. It made everything complicated- and not in a good way! It made Jazz want to hit something.

Bluestreak suddenly whimpered as if in pain, the noise loud enough so that everyone could hear. Jazz looked back without thinking about it. When he realized he was checking on the sniper, he snapped his head back around.

"Frag it," he spat.

He. Did. Not. Care.

One of the Neutrals squeaked as he heard Jazz's curse. "Is something the matter?"

"No!" Jazz barked, making the bot jump and scramble away. Several others including the twins stared for several breems after that. Jazz fixed his gaze ahead and steadily worked to ignore their staring. He brooded darkly over his fragged up situation. Soon enough, the others' attention diverted to other matters. He could hear Sideswipe's failing attempts to convince Moonracer that he and his brother were not complete monsters.

"We're honestly not that bad," said the red warrior. "We've had a hard life, that's all."

"I heard you tear the sparks out of Decepticons even after they beg for mercy," Moonracer replied sharply. Never once did she set her blaster down when she was in the presence of either twin. Jazz could tell that she was naturally a gentle bot with a soft demeanour, but she kept up the strong front because she was the unspoken leader of the Neutral group. She couldn't risk weakness in front of the twins. Her faith in Jazz, however, remained firmly intact. More the pity to her.

Sideswipe grimaced, glancing guiltily to his brother. "Yeah, well, they didn't deserve that much mercy…"

Moonracer shot him a caustic glare. "And you get to decide that because…?"

Sideswipe sighed. "This is war. It's either kill or be killed."

"Does that reasoning help you to recharge at night?"

"Not really, but it's all I have," Sideswipe replied, shoulders sagging. "Honestly, I'm trying here. Me and Sunny haven't hurt you guys. We're trying to help. Can't you give us a chance?"

Moonracer pursed her mouthplates, ultimately torn between wariness and persisting optimism. She wanted to believe the best in everyone. Although she wouldn't dare admit the fact, but she had met Sunstreaker once when he had been a sweet little youngling. He'd been the sweetest little thing! So tiny and quaint compared to the hulking miner's frame that she herself had used to inhabit. From all that she had heard of the twins in the present, that little flustered youngling was gone. They were terrible creatures now who did terrible things. Unforgivable things. Did she have enough in her to give monsters a chance?

She turned her sights on Jazz's back. "Prowl, what do you think? Should I give the murderers a chance?"

Jazz paused for a step, causing those who were following him to slow down. He glanced over his shoulder to discover that he had the attention of more than just Moonracer. He frowned at them and decided to keep walking, letting everyone else resume their trek.

"Ah think ya should be grateful," he grunted.

"For what?" Moonracer snorted.

"Instead of being alive, ya could be dead," said the saboteur. She had no idea how close she'd come several times to being _dead._ Jazz hands still itched occasionally when the femme ran her mouth too long.

Moonracer canted her head, suddenly realizing how lucky she was. Being alive did happen to be a lot better than being dead. She had to admit that she did owe the twins a bit of a debt, since they were the ones running patrols while 'Prowl' continued to work on Bluestreak's mind to keep him calm through the night. Sideswipe usually brought back energon by dawn. Everyone knew it was energon drained from dead frames, but no one said anything. Sunstreaker patrolled at night and carried Bluestreak during the orn. He never bothered anyone, even though he made everyone uncomfortable.

"I guess you're not so bad," the femme admitted, laughing very quietly. "Not as bad as Jazz, I guess. He'd probably kill us all, right?"

Jazz almost confirmed the fact, but stopped himself in time.

Sideswipe offered a guilty smile, glancing in his brother's direction. Sunstreaker snorted quietly, adjusting Bluestreak on his back before the sniper fell off. Sideswipe's gaze slid briefly to Jazz's back before returning to the green femme, rubbing the back of his neck lightly.

"You know, Moonracer, the thing about Jazz is…"

Moonracer's optics flashed. "You know him, don't you? He really is a monster, isn't he?"

Jazz found himself listening more attentively than he should have.

Sideswipe revved in discomfort. "It's not that. He's a lot to get used to, for sure, but…I don't think he's such a bad mech. At least, he not _such_ a bad mech anymore," he said quietly, feeling like he had to say something. "Despite what you've heard, he's changed a lot."

It was the honest truth. The Jazz who first came to Iacon never would have bothered to go after someone like Bluestreak, let alone rescue a whole group of Neutrals. The Jazz back then- well, Sideswipe didn't want to think about what he might do. Maybe he would have been the one to torture them all and then kill them slowly for his own enjoyment. But this Jazz… It was hard for Sideswipe to pin him down into a single category. He wasn't all the way good, but he wasn't all the way bad, either. Having walked that fine line with his brother for a number of vorns, the red mech could definitely relate to that.

Moonracer looked incredulous.

"Let her think what she wants," Jazz intoned darkly.

"But-," Sideswipe began.

"Drop it, Sides," Sunstreaker murmured quietly.

"But Sunny," he whined.

Sunstreaker sighed. "Just… drop it."

Sideswipe opened his mouthplates, but then thought better of his words and said nothing at all. This was neither the time nor place for causing a scene. No one wanted the Neutrals to figure out who their saviour _Prowl_ really was. It would cause too much of a scene for them all to handle. He resigned himself to trudge on without further word.

Moonracer exchanged arched looks with her fellow Neutrals, increasingly suspicious of the unusual mech called 'Prowl'. She supposed he was just a mercenary, but no Neutral mercenary she'd ever heard of had such commanding power over creatures like the twins. Prowl had never said it out loud that he was a mercenary, she just assumed it. It seemed wrong to trust someone who was an absolute stranger to her, yet she didn't have much of a choice, did she?

Jazz sensed the femme's stare, glancing over his shoulder to send her an arched looked through his visor. Moonracer met that stare for as long as she dared before she was forced to look away.

* * *

It was three orns before the edges of the Neutral camp came into sight.

The entirety of the three orns had been absorbed by slow moving and anxious silence. With every orn that passed, discomfort amongst the Neutrals became increasingly obvious as they realized their so-called rescuer and the twins were keeping something from them. Moonracer still kept up a brave front, struggling to maintain leadership over her fellow Neutrals. If this had been any other situation, she wouldn't have made much of a leader. Her nature was too soft, her desires that of a pacifist. Despite her growing doubts of who 'Prowl' really was, she wanted to trust in the minibot that had saved them.

Relief was palpable when the first shout went up from one of the warriors surrounding the camp. He came rushing out to greet the group, followed by several Neutrals who were overjoyed to have their family and friends returned to them. Predictably, the twins received a cold shouldered greeting from the camp the moment residents scanned their unusual spark signatures. Moonracer was not the only one to believe rumours. Jazz, however, was immediately assaulted by praise and grins when bots figured out he was the one to have rescued not only the Autobot but all of the Neutrals as well. Their praise only made Jazz's foul mood darker, forcing Sideswipe to run interference before something really bad happened.

Just outside the boundaries of the camp was a small ship balanced on the semi-collapsed roofs of several buildings, its dull grey hull matching its surroundings well. Had it been night, it would have blended in perfectly. In the light of orn, it managed to look like a gigantic grey wart sitting atop the buildings. Even from a distance, the ship was obviously Autobot design. The hatch was down, a red and white bot already zipping out- First Aid, no doubt. Someone else lurked in the hatchway, but their dark plating helped to camouflage them against the ship, their identity disguised.

In a matter of moments, First Aid was on the ground and rushing for their small group. He was forced to skirt around the small celebration that had started to bubble together, but he did smile for them and congratulate a few bots as he passed them. When he finally came upon the twins and Jazz, he showed no hesitation in beckoning Sunstreaker to lay Bluestreak out. The golden mech did as ordered, laying the sniper on the ground as carefully as possible. For a brief moment, Bluestreak cracked his optics open and looked up, but his gaze was unfocused and full of nightmares. He groaned as if in horrible pain, and then rolled over to curl into a tight ball. Scans roved the mech, following the motion of First Aid's hands as he ghosted over the sniper's frame.

"No physical damage," said the medic, peering up at the twins. "Did something happen to his processor?" His sky-blue optics lingered too long on Jazz, who stuck close to the scene for some reason. It was as if he were concerned for Bluestreak. That was curious. As far as First Aid knew, Jazz had never shown concern for anyone injured before- not openly, at least.

Jazz opened his mouthplates to say what afflicted Bluestreak, but closed his mouthplates before any noise came out. He sighed and looked away.

"Memory loop," Sunstreaker murmured quietly, his fists clenching tightly.

Sideswipe crouched down, stroking the side of Bluestreak's head gently. "Jazz severed the loop, but there's a lot of damage. He doesn't seem to be able to talk much or control his movements."

"The data for his lingual files and motor subroutines must be corrupted," First Aid sighed. "That's not good. Poor thing- his head must feel like it's on fire from the amount of data that must be displaced."

Sideswipe shuddered. "Ratchet will be able to fix him, right?"

First Aid scanned Bluestreak's head again carefully, frowning tightly. "I believe so. Ratchet is much better at unscrambling data than I am." From subspace, he pulled out an injector and a small vial of clear liquid. "I can administer something to knock him out until we get home, though." A panel of armour on Bluestreak's arm was pulled back, exposing an energon line through which the drug was administered. Immediately, Bluestreak's frame turned limp, his faceplate going lax. It was the first hint of peace seen on him in orns.

Once sure Bluestreak was calmed, First Aid rocked back on his heels and peered at the twins curiously, a question obvious in his stare. He wanted to know what they were doing there. Everyone in Iacon knew the twins had walked out, though no one knew the reason why. It wouldn't be the first time either one of them had gone their own way when it suited them, but this time was even more odd than the others since they weren't being their normal untouchable selves. They had Bluestreak, which meant they had gone after the mech. The twins had done something good, for once.

Sideswipe caught on to the medic's wondering stare, sighing at it. "What are they saying back in Iacon, First Aid?"

The medic shrugged. "You'll be living in the brig until the sky falls down, is what I've heard the most. There are other things, like bots saying you both finally defected to the Decepticons and slag like that." He gave one low, small laugh. "Heard a rumour that Prowl sent you out, but it was so ridiculous that I barely listened."

"Yeah, ridiculous," the red mech murmured.

For once, the Autobot rumour mill wasn't that far from the mark. Thank Primus, the truth was just so insane that no one could believe it. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were too smart to glance back at Jazz. Such a move might alert First Aid to something unusual.

"But, well, yeah..." First Aid sighed, petting Bluestreak gently. "You're in the usual kind of trouble you get into for being yourselves."

Sideswipe shrugged. "That's nothing new."

First Aid nodded, feeling awkward to be so near the twins when they were perfectly healthy. Most times he ever found himself near them was when they were dying in the med bay after they'd gone insane on the battlefield. Generally speaking, they were usually unconscious and in pieces whenever he was within arms' length of them. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd ever had a reasonable conversation with them. Ratchet was the one who maintained a volatile love-hate relationship with the twins.

Sideswipe must have realized the same thing, because he rocked back on his heels and straightened to his full height. "So... we gonna move Blue or what?"

Sunstreaker murmured something quietly, the tips of his claws tracing along Bluestreak's head. "We should get back to Iacon as soon as possible," he said.

"Right, of course, we really should move out," First Aid said quickly, snapping to his feet. "You'll be able to carry him to the ship, yes?" His gaze zipped from one twin to the other.

Without a word, Sunstreaker took the sniper into his arms and started off for the ship. Sideswipe revved for a moment, watching his brother go. His bright optics slid to Jazz for a moment, his gaze shrewd. It lasted for only a moment, and then he turned on his heel and followed after his brother to make sure Bluestreak was settled on the ship properly.

First Aid was suddenly left standing in the middle of a strange place, caught between following the twins to the safety of the ship and wondering if Jazz was going to join them. Ratchet had mentioned that Jazz had cut his ties with the Autobots, but the way the saboteur was just standing there...

"Um, Jazz?" First Aid intoned.

The silver mech started, as if startled from his thoughts. He never retracted his visor, but First Aid was suddenly aware that he was being glared at. The medic immediately backed down a step, bowing his optics to the ground. There was a lost wildness lingering about the saboteur that reminded First Aid of that first frightening time he had ever seen Jazz. It had been at the tail end of a rescue mission, only the team he'd been on was the one picking Prowl up out of Straxis. Over a vorn ago, in fact. Jazz looked just as fierce as he did that orn, maybe a little more so with energon still clinging to him in places. Only now First Aid saw him in a different light- less like the villain and not quite a monster. Definitely not the hero, though. Somewhere in between, he guessed. Feral, yet retaining a modicum of... tameness.

Or maybe he was just being stupid.

"So, um, are you coming back with us?" First Aid wondered.

Jazz paused for a moment, his head tilting ever so slightly. His attention drifted to the Autobot ship for a moment, then returned to First Aid. He opened his mouthplates to say something, then thought better of it. He heaved a sigh and said, "_never mind_," more to himself than to anyone else. He turned on his heel and started to walk away.

First Aid accepted the fact that Jazz was not an Autobot, perfectly willing to let the bot be on his way, but something had to be said before he left and was never seen again. "Wait, Jazz!"

Jazz stopped suddenly, turning to regard him coolly. "Say mah designation a little louder, why don't ya? Ya lookin' ta start a mass panic or something?"

First Aid instantly covered his mouthplates. "Oh," he squeaked between his fingers. "Oh, I wasn't thinking... sorry."

The saboteur rolled his optics, though the gesture was invisible behind his visor. "Ya wanted ta say something?"

"Yeah, yeah I did... You did a good thing," said the medic. It was the first thing to pop into his head. Jazz had done a good thing and it deserved to be said out loud. "If you hadn't rescued Blue when you did, that memory loop probably would have destroyed him. If you hadn't of gone after him, Bluestreak might very well have died before an Autobot team could have gotten to him. "

"Ah probably did just as much damage by severing the loop," Jazz pointed out. "He's probably dead already, even if his spark still beats."

"At least now we have a chance to save him. Thanks to you, he's with his side again. He can be cared for now. You did that. You gave him a chance," First Aid insisted, feeling silly and a little bit in danger the longer he talked. "You're a better bot than you give yourself credit for."

Jazz bristled for a moment, scowling. _"Whatever,"_ he muttered before turning on his heel and leaving.

First Aid watched him go until he could no longer see a flash of silver armour amongst the buildings. With a shake of his head, the medic transformed and headed back for the ship, eager to return home.

* * *

Feeling the need for violence come up and choke him, Jazz lashed out. His clenched fist impacted on the battered wall. He felt the metal of his fingers buckle. The insides of his hand turned to fire. The wall suffered less damage, only a slight dent for his efforts.

"Damn it!" he cursed viciously.

His fist lashed out again, striking the wall. He did it again and again until he was forced to turn off the neural receptors in his hand. Energon leaked out from a split energon line, running down the dark silver metal and dripping from the ends of his claws. Because it was his own energon that decorated his hand, he took no delight in the image. He still felt the bristling need to hit something, to hurt something, but he could scarcely use his hand anymore. The damages were too severe to allow him to close his fist properly. But still the choking feeling that gripped him from the inside out did not abate. Perhaps he could use his undamaged hand to keep assaulting anything that came within arm's reach? He wanted to so desperately, but didn't like the idea of leaving himself open and helpless with two hands messed up.

Things weren't going his way at all!

Above the crooked line of the roofs towering around him, Jazz could still make out the top of the Autobot ship. It hadn't left yet. It was still sitting there like some sort of dark, malignant tumour. Even if it was something bad for him, he couldn't resist the pull he felt. A tug that made him want to take a step toward the ship instead of a step away.

He wanted to return-

_NO!_

He did _not_ want to go back.

As if to defy him directly, the Autobot ship never did leave. It continued to sit there for a joor, and then longer. It sat so innocently, daring him like a poisoned cube of fine high-grade... _come a little closer... what harm would it do...?_ He wanted something he couldn't let himself have. Too many risks. Too many unknowns. Not enough control.

If the taunting of the ship was not enough, the sounds of celebration leeched into the air all around him. It was a quiet party, since the Neutrals were too wary of drawing too much outside attention to their camp, but it was music and laughter nonetheless. Jazz could hear the name _Prowl_ being murmured appreciatively by more than a few bots. They still thought he was a good bot, still thought he was a hero. What would they think if they knew his real designation? He would no longer be the hero, that was for sure.

Why the pit did he use that stupid designation in the first place?

_Prowl. _

The source of all his problems.

Damn that screwed up, emotionally handicapped, too-logical-for-his-own-good fragger! Damn everything about him! Damn his ordinary faceplate and his plain grey paint; damn his diamond-sharp optics and too-quick mind; damn those almost-smiles he wore when they were mentally sparring with each other. Damn everything about him, because he was everything that Jazz was not.

He was _not_ Prowl. Nothing like Prowl. He was-

"Jazz?"

Reacting by pure instinct, Jazz swung around and slammed into the taller frame that had snuck up behind him. There was a brief flash of a surprised faceplate; pale optics like ice and armour the colour of angry storm clouds. He knew exactly who it was. He'd known from the moment he had seen the distant silhouette standing in the open hatch of the Autobot ship. The moment the mech had drawn close enough, his spark resonance had set off all sorts of alarms in Jazz's head. Now storm-grey armour ground against unrelenting silver as he rammed the bot into the wall he'd been assaulting earlier.

The attack was too easy, too clean, too easily executed. Prowl did not bother to put up a fight. He let himself be violently managed, subdued in the brutal fashion the saboteur chose. Jazz pressed his forearm into the tactician's neck, pinning him to the spot. He leaned his weight into the assault. A deep growl rolled from him, completely feral and laced with rampant frustration.

"Ah should _kill_ you," he snarled lowly, breathing the words into Prowl's audios.

"Should you?" Prowl wondered. "Is that what you really want?" He almost sounded calm, like his normal unaffected self, but there was a shudder to his voice that belied his discomfort. It was rather difficult to speak when there was an unrelenting forearm forced into the space where his vocal processor normally worked.

"Ah should kill you," Jazz repeated, purring and growling at the same time. "Right here, right now. If you're dead, ya won't be able ta bother meh no more." He wanted it so badly he could taste it. But then he also didn't want it. The thought made him want to recoil. It was a war inside him.

"There are a lot of things that we _should _do, but we do not always do what is best for us, do we?" Prowl replied lowly. He could see the madness dancing at the corners of Jazz's consciousness. He could feel the erratic energy thrumming in the air, too much like how the saboteur had been when they had first met. Jazz had been given a taste of the world he'd once known, and like the worst of any rehabilitated addict, the burn of the addiction had come rushing back with the first taste.

"Like this?" Jazz hissed. "You comin' here after meh? That's no good for either of us."

"Yes, exactly like this," Prowl murmured.

Jazz pressed against the tactician's neck harder, eliciting a desperate choking sound. In every place where his frame pinned Prowl's, energy thrummed through him. Heat and challenge. It was like hot, burning, _searing_ electricity vibrating through every inch of his neural net. If he held on for too long, his paint might blister off from the heat of it. He pressed a little closer again, and this time it was not entirely to keep hurting Prowl.

Prowl's frame trembled for a moment. His optics dimmed as increasing pressure in his neck started to disrupt computing power in his processor. Shaking hands came up, but did not try to rip Jazz's arm away. He simply let his hands rest there, allowing for Jazz to come to whatever decision he internally warred with himself to make. Under his palms, he felt the silver armour vibrating, tense and burning hot beneath his touch.

Jazz glared. Prowl stared.

Without warning, the pressure on Prowl's neck released. Jazz swung away, stalking down the alley. Dizzy by the suddenness of his freedom, Prowl dropped and stumbled, searching for a steady ledge to grab hold of. His free hand came up to grasp the damages Jazz left behind. Not the worst to have ever happened to him, for sure. The metal was simply shirked into unusual angles, something that he could fix on his own the moment he got his hands on a mirror and his personal repair kit. Turning off his neural relays in the area relieved him of any discomfort.

Six steps away, Jazz spun around to face Prowl again. Their gazes collided like thunder and lightning. Of its own accord, Jazz's visor snapped up so that his searing white gaze could burn into Prowl's ice-blue one. Even though they weren't touching, electricity still zapped between them.

"Why are ya here?" Jazz demanded, barely able to spit the words out without snarling. His good hand clenched, the urge to strike again building up. He wanted to punch Prowl in the faceplate. That would probably make him feel a lot better. He also wanted to pin Prowl again, rip into his head and steal every thought the mech every tried to hide; he wanted answers and he wanted them _now_!

"I couldn't stay in Iacon," Prowl replied, his voice turned hoarse from the rough treatment of his vocal processor. Low and gritty.

"Why?" Jazz pressed, unsatisfied with such an answer.

"Because..." His gaze gaze dipped to Jazz's damaged hand. He frowned at the sight of it. Energon still leaked out, but the flow was beginning to staunch. Streaks of blue congealed along the metal. Slowly his gaze came back up to meet the saboteur's. "Because you were here."

Jazz cut a furious gesture through the air. "Ya shouldn't have bothered! Ah'm done with ya!"

Prowl's optic's flashed, his mouthplates thinning into a tight line. His hands clenched into fists. "And what if I was not done with you?"

Jazz snarled. "Ya wasted your time."

"Did I really?"

"Yes!" His vents were heaving, every slate of armour on his frame bristling. "Ah refuse ta become something Ah'm not, Prowl! Ah'm not like you! Ah will not become an Autobot!"

Prowl curled his mouthplates into a subtle sneer, something that neither bot had ever thought him capable of. "You're just scared."

Like a flash, the distance between them closed again. Expecting the attack, Prowl managed to counter just in time. This time, it was Jazz who found himself up against the wall. His chest smashed into the unforgiving surface while the long, hard length of Prowl's frame pressed up against his back. He was pinned, his wrists manacled by Prowl's hands, his legs forced apart by the tactician's so that he remained off-balance. For once, it appeared the intensity of Prowl's emotions was giving him the strength for such outright violence. Strength and determination radiated off him in waves. Jazz tested his bonds, fury powering his struggle. Prowl held steady, pinning him harder.

"Ah'm really gonna kill ya for this," Jazz said darkly, turning his faceplate so that he could glare at the looming bot behind him.

"You'll want to, but I doubt you'll ever follow through." Prowl lowered his mouthplates to Jazz's audio. "I know the reason you keep running away, why you resist everything I have done for you. You're scared of what you don't understand."

"The frag Ah am!" Like a feral animal, Jazz twisted and snarled. It seemed the wildness he'd unleashed in the Decepticon encampment had not completely left him yet. Too many thoughts whirled through is mind. He wanted to get loose so he could do a thousand terrible things to Prowl. Rip him apart and string his innards up so everyone could see what he'd done. He wanted to finally win the Primus-damned contest between them. Most of all, he wanted the confusion to end. He wanted his fascination with the tactician to wither and die so that there was nothing else on Cybertron to distract him.

"You've never had someone who is your intellectual equal before," Prowl continued, his hoarse voice growling lowly. It vibrated against Jazz's armour, making him feel lightheaded. The metal on the side of his head turned hot where the vents in Prowl's neck breathed out. "You've never had someone who does not fear you, who seeks to challenge but not to destroy you. You've never known kindness, nor have you ever known friendship. You fear them because they are not part of the world you are from. They are weaknesses because you do not understand their strengths."

A cruel laugh burst from between Jazz's mouthplates. "That's rich coming from ya- the mech who buries everything and wishes ta feel nothing!"

Prowl pressed harder against the smaller bot, not enough to hurt but enough to get his point across. "At least I sought to correct my failings."

"And Ah tried ta correct mine- _by getting away from ya_!" On the last word, a massive magnetic pulse exploded from Jazz's hands. It was enough to shock Prowl's systems, forcing his hands to release the saboteur's wrists. The silver bot took advantage of the surprise, spinning around to first punch Prowl in the faceplate like he so desperately wanted to, and then knocking Prowl to the ground so he could be pinned. An energon-stained blade primed in a vital area kept the tactician down.

"Why can't ya leave meh alone? Let meh get on with mah life!" Jazz snarled.

Prowl stared up from his vulnerable position, but no fear flashed in his optics. There was only a storm there, so many thoughts and emotions that he could not sort one from the other. "I refuse to let the last vorn of my life be for nothing. We've made so much progress-."

"_Progress!"_ A sharp, bitter laugh burst from Jazz. A cruel, crazed sound that bit into the air like glass shards. He spread his arms wide, displaying the gore that still stuck to him. Energon and ash smeared his handsome frame. "This is where your so-called progress got ya! The moment Ah had the chance, Ah slaughtered every bot Ah could get mah hands on. This is who Ah am! That won't change!"

"And why were you there in the first place, Jazz? You were there to help someone! You saved several lives of your own volition, Autobot and Neutral alike. I call that change." The blueness of Prowl's optics glinted and glittered, more emotion there than Jazz had ever seen before. "You're not the monster you think you are!"

Jazz bristled, the hand clenching around the hilt of his blade spasming. "Mute it! Mute it or Ah swear ta Primus Ah'll rip your mouthplates off!"

Heedless of the threat, the tactician continued. He propped himself up on his elbows, unable to sit any higher with Jazz's weight still baring down on his torso. "When I heard that you went after Bluestreak, I made a decision. I wasn't going to throw away everything we've done for each other just because you're afraid. You don't think I'm wary of where this arrangement might lead? _I am_. The difference is that I am willing to take that risk. I took chances for you. I broke rules for you. I risked my rank to send you backup."

Jazz leaned away, scowling. "You're a fool."

A single hand came up and grasped Jazz's wrist steadily, holding him in place so that he did not leave. "A fool, perhaps, but a determined one. You wanted my trust when we started this, and you have had my trust for longer than I care to admit. Now I ask that you trust me." His grip on Jazz's wrist tightened. "Come back to Iacon with me. You don't have to throw away everything you've done in the last vorn."

"Ah _can't_," Jazz hissed, his whole frame tense. "Ah won't be less than what Ah am."

"Did you ever think that in becoming an Autobot, you might become _more_ than what you are?"

Jazz said nothing at all, seething in silence.

Prowl opened his mouthplates to say something more, but the approach of a spark resonance distracted both bots. A quick tip-tap of footsteps echoed through the alley. Moonracer's green form appeared in the narrow opening between the buildings.

"Prowl- oh!" She stopped dead, optics widening as she took in the scene. Jazz looked feral and ready to kill as he straddled an unknown Autobot. The Autobot had one of Jazz's wrists shackled, while Jazz's free hand clutched at a blade. The air was electric, their magnetic fields flaring so powerfully that the sensation tingled against the femme's plating.

"Can I help you?" Prowl enquired, his voice returned to a mild tone that contrasted wildly with the absurd situation he was in.

Moonracer's gaze switched to Jazz. "I was worried when I didn't see you around the camp. I wondered why the Autobots wouldn't leave. I came looking for you..." She glanced at the stained blade in Jazz's hand. "Is everything alright, Prowl?"

Prowl canted his head, curious why the femme kept looking at Jazz. He was made even more curious of the way that Jazz's frame tensed atop of him. "Everything is fine. We were just having an... intense discussion."

Moonracer pursed her mouthplates. "I, um, wasn't talking to you..." she said lamely.

Perhaps it was the intensity of his exchange with Jazz that addled his processor, or simply that the absurdity of the idea made it complete incomprehensible, but it did not occur to Prowl that Jazz might have been using his designation as a cover. So, trying to make sense of the confusion of the situation, he said, "There must be some sort of misunderstanding. I am Prowl."

"No, that's Prowl," said Moonracer, pointing to Jazz.

"You are mistaken, I am Prowl. This is..." Prowl trailed off, realizing that Jazz most likely would not have used his real designation. He looked to the saboteur enquiringly, hoping to surmise the identity he'd been using. It still did not occur to him that Jazz would be absurd enough to call himself Prowl.

Jazz hissed, knowing his cover was finally blown. He turned to Moonracer and stared straight into her optics. He was finally getting what he wanted, smashing that pathetic idea she had of him as a hero. "Remember when Ah said ya were lucky ta be alive? Ah really meant it. Ya don't know how many times Ah came close ta snuffing ya out."

She played the words over in her head. Dawning realization crept across her faceplate. He saw the slow transformation from ignorance to knowing. Tension laced through her frame, then a shudder passed through her. Fear filled her optics as she realized how close she had truly come to death. Her hand shot to her mouthplates, trying to smother the shaking gasp that spilled from between her fingers.

"J-Jazz."

"That's right, the monster himself."

Panic and terror shot through every molecule of the femme.

Prowl shoved himself into a complete sitting position, manoeuvring Jazz to the side. "No, wait, there's no need to panic-."

Too late. With a fluttering sound like a cross between a scream and a sob, Moonracer turned on her heel and fled from the mouth of the alley. No doubt she was off to inform the Neutrals of who really lurked among them. Or maybe she would find a dark corner somewhere and cry for a bit. It was not every orn that one discovered they had been only a breath away from death, after all. A mass panic of the entire camp was only a matter of time.

Jazz turned an accusing stare on Prowl. "It's almost like ya planned that."

"If I did, it would have been better executed," Prowl replied wryly. He arched both optic ridges. "You used _my_ designation as your disguise?"

"It was the first one ta pop into mah head," Jazz snorted.

They sat on the dirty ground of the alley for an awkward moment, shifting uneasily in each other's company. They suddenly found no desire to take up their interrupted fight. The urge had been wiped from them, replaced by the odd familiarity they found in each other.

"Guess Ah can't stay here no more," Jazz said absently.

"No, I suppose not."

Jazz pushed to his feet, brushing himself off. He stared down at Prowl still on the ground, then extended his hand to him. The tactician stared at the offer for a brief moment before accepting.

"Let's go," Jazz sighed.

"Where?"

"Where do ya think?" the saboteur sighed in resignation.

"Home," Prowl said, a soft statement rather than a question.

"If that's what ya want ta call it," Jazz shrugged. "Ah just don't have any place better ta be at the moment."

Prowl almost smiled while Jazz nearly scowled. Without a word, the tactician turned to lead the way back to the ship. It took an astrosecond, but Jazz finally conceded to follow.


	22. Chapter 22

Urgh, I'm so sick right now it feels like my head is going to explode. Lord only knows if my ability to write has been impaired. Gods, I hope not. *shudders* Anyways, I've agonized over trying to write this chapter for _weeks_. After the intensity of the last chapter, there was no way I could possibly top that. And now that inspiration for this story is back, I get sick? Hells bells, someone must hate me. -_- I hope to Paradise and back that this chapter lives up to the quality and intensity established by the story thus far. Enjoy it, my friends!

I offer my most sincere and humblest thanks to the reviewers of the last chapter. Each of you serve as little lights that keep my inspiration glowing- even as I fret and fumble with the words to write. I can never express the full depth of my gratitude to you all, but I hope you understand that the effort and enthusiasm that you place in your reviews means more to me than words can express. Thank you to **sockets, FoghornLeghorn83, renegadewriter8, phoebe turner, PrancingTiger86, DeAD oN SIghT, CNightJoy, smoking caramels, Fiera Sabre, Anon, animelover1993, Optimus Bob, Kai-Chan94, Darkeyes17, ChaosGarden, Christina, Jinx, Faecat, shadowblade-tara, Guardian Moon Dragon, Peacewish, xdragonslayerx, Nightblooming Orchid, Midnight Marquis, Got Buttermilk, Sideslip, Deathcomes4u, abarai-san, brisingr1109, Pruhana, UsagiLovesDuochan, Swedish Dragon, Daklog73, 1bloodtempest, BoredTech, chaitea16, A Lurker, Bluebird Soaring, Xenophobic Doll, Lecidre, aughoti, fauxfaia, JenEvan, Uniasus, Patcher, Katea-Nui,** and **bRamble Girl**~

Read, Review, and Enjoy~ ^_^

**Chapter 22**

The flight back to Iacon base was thankfully quiet. With Bluestreak sedated, there were no screams to echo through the hull of the small ship. He was silent, strapped down to an anchored berth attached to the wall of the small carry hold in the back of the ship. Restrained as he was, the sniper was not completely motionless; in the silence, the sound of shivering metal vibrating against metal could be heard over the dull droning of the engines. He would not stop shaking no matter what First Aid did for him.

The ship itself was a relatively small one, containing only two essential compartments- the cockpit up front and the carry hold in the back. Sideswipe had taken the cockpit, given that he was the best pilot out of them all. He would get them back to base the quickest... if he didn't decide to goof off. Given the circumstances, and the warning growl he received from Sunstreaker the moment he jumped in the pilot's chair, the red twin would be doing nothing but proper flying. This was aided by the fact that after Sunstreaker made sure Bluestreak was safely strapped down and comfortable, he took up the seat next to his brother and proceeded to brood darkly in the cockpit. One wrong move on Sideswipe's part, and no one had any doubt that Sunstreaker would violently correct the behaviour.

With Bluestreak's berth taking up much of the room in the back of the ship, there wasn't a lot of space for the three other bots travelling to Iacon.

First Aid invested much of his attention in his patient. Although he could do little for Bluestreak's mental condition in comparison to Ratchet's skills, there was still some minor work he could do. Instead of being directly hooked up to the sniper's mind, First Aid delegated the work to a portable computer, which he rapidly clicked away at in order to start re-sequencing the least damaged data he could find. His back was turned to Prowl and Jazz; usually this was considered the most dangerous position anyone could be in when knowing Jazz was behind them, but First Aid placed his full trust in Prowl to keep the saboteur in line.

Prowl, for his part, sat tensely on the bench seat built into the wall. Next to him was Jazz, who displayed an even more intense case of rigidity, driven up a notch by the fact that he hadn't recharged in several orns. The saboteur's savaged appearance did not lend him any aesthetic relief either; he was scratched and scuffed, embodying the appearance of a bot who had been travelling hard for several orns. Their brief confrontation in the alley had not helped the saboteur's condition, perhaps only driving him farther to the edge. Prowl knew that Jazz would never admit to the fact, but the saboteur was tired and in desperate need of recharge and repairs. Jazz's tension only wound tighter the closer they drew to base.

Deciding to be kind, Prowl dug into subspace and removed a cube of energon. He cast First Aid a suspicious look first, but the medic showed no signs of being aware of anyone but Bluestreak. Once assured that there would be no witnesses, he offered the cube to his silver companion. Jazz discreetly tensed at the movement, perhaps expecting an attack or else so wound up by now that he was unable to make a move without involuntarily spasming. Prowl met Jazz's gaze through the saboteur's visor, keeping his own expression as neutral as possible. He held the cube out a little farther, offering it more insistently. As expected, Jazz turned his head a fraction to regard First Aid, confirming that the medic's attention was not divided in any way. Then the saboteur watched Prowl calculatingly even as he accepted the cube.

Prowl opened a channel between them, allowing them to speak without being overheard.

"_It's concentrated energon," _he said. _"Ratchet gave it to me before I left with First Aid." _

"_For Bluestreak?" _

"_For you. I have one for Bluestreak as well, but he's in no condition to accept it."_

The saboteur slanted him a sly look. _"And the twins?" _

"_Let's not ask for miracles," _Prowl replied. Ratchet had more than a few choice words for the twins; like most of the Autobots in Iacon, the CMO was under the impression that the twins had disregarded their duties for their own selfish reasons. If the twins thought themselves above Autobots rules, they didn't deserve to be rewarded for it with energon. Prowl felt guilty for the misconception, but had not corrected it.

Jazz met Prowl's gaze for several moments, suspicion lurking behind that glowing diamond visor.

"_It's not poisoned," _said the tactician. _"Ratchet assured me of its purity. He mentioned that it's a concentrated batch since he suspected you wouldn't have recharged since you left base."_

"_Haven't had a chance ta even close mah optics," _Jazz sighed. _"Ah swear, this is the last time Ah even deal with Neutrals. They're damn useless." _

Prowl smirked, resisting the urge to point out that Jazz technically was a Neutral. Instead, he pressed his hand to the saboteur's, over the cube. _"This will give you enough fuel to stay online until you can find a berth to recharge in." _

"_Remind meh ta thank Ratchet next time Ah see him," _Jazz replied, cracking the seal on the cube and tilting it to his mouthplates. He didn't gulp it down like he desperately wanted to. He took a slow taste of it, testing the liquid. It didn't taste peculiar, aside from the extra kick that the concentrated energy afforded it; it skirted the line between regular energon and high-grade. After waiting a moment, he didn't feel any untoward affects if there had been drugs hidden in the drink. Deciding it was safe enough, he swallowed the rest down in earnest.

Prowl watched with interest, though tried to disguise his interest under his usual façade. Internally, his mind raced. With an uninhibited view of the saboteur, he was able to gain a complete assessment of the mech. Surprisingly, for a bot who had recently infiltrated a Decepticon base and rescued several bots, Jazz was not terribly rode off. Evidence of battle could be seen in the burn marks across Jazz's shoulders and down his sides where he had been skimmed by plasma blasts while in a retreat. He was still spattered in dried energon that was not his own. But evidence of battle came in second to obvious wear and tear of travelling hard for several orns. Dust and grime was caked in to all imaginable places, his once-shining armour now dull. His diamond visor was thankfully intact, but the light shining from it was dim.

"_If ya keep staring at meh, you'll give me a complex," _Jazz transmitted as he finished with the cube. He re-sealed the container and handed it back to Prowl, who slipped it away into his subspace pocket. A moment later, the light behind Jazz's visor brightened a fraction as the extra boost of energy began to take affect.

"_You already have enough complexes,"_ Prowl replied, inclining his head.

"_Then stop staring, half-bit,"_ Jazz said, snorting softly.

Prowl could not help but allow the edge of his mouthplates to tug upward as he recognized the gist of the last conversation he and Jazz had had before the saboteur left. After a moment, he deigned to looked away politely.

Directly in front of them, First Aid made a noise of frustration. He had finally reached the limit of what he could do for Bluestreak, and that limit did not reach far enough. He could not do as much as he wanted for the sniper. He shot a look back at Jazz for a moment, and then pointedly looked away.

Jazz caught the glance, growling lowly. "Ah did what Ah could."

First Aid tensed, hunching his shoulders. "I know you did."

"But ya wanted meh ta do more."

First Aid shook his head guiltily. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have expected anything more from you. You did enough by rescuing him."

"Yeah, well..." Jazz trailed off, making a rumbling noise like a frustrated growl. "Maybe if the bot who did that to him was a lesser mech, Ah'd have been able ta do more. As it stands...Ah did what Ah could."

The medic looked surprised to hear such an admittance, before smartly turning back to Bluestreak and fussing with him. "Yes, of course. You did what you could. Ratchet... Ratchet will be able to help him now."

It was silent again in the carry hold. Up front in the cockpit, someone was cycling air deeply as if they were recharging. Prowl prayed that the recharging mech was not the same one flying the ship. Deciding that Sideswipe couldn't possibly be _that_ irresponsible, especially when he seemed to have emotional investment in Bluestreak's welfare, Prowl relaxed back into his seat. He was given the chance to think over Jazz's words and found that something about them bothered him...

"_What kind of bot could possibly have the skill to thwart you?" _he asked via transmission.

Jazz's gaze instantly flashed to him, a fake smirk jerking the corners of his mouthplates. _"Well, there's you."_

Prowl shook his head. _"Who else, besides myself?"_

This time, Jazz looked away. Prowl noted that the recently restored energy in the minibot's frame seemed to drain out. _"Someone ya don't want ta know, Prowler. He's bad news."_

It was a mystery to imagine who could possibly illicit such a reaction in Jazz. Prowl wanted to press for more, but found that doing so at such a moment would be a tactical error. He had just managed to get Jazz to return to Iacon and did not want to risk that tenuous victory. He made a note to himself to question Jazz further on the identity of the mystery mech at a later time. If there was someone out there who left Jazz uneasy, then Prowl wanted to know as much as possible about this threat. For the time being, he was quiet, giving Jazz time to sort through his own thoughts.

The short joors it took to arrive home gave Prowl the chance to treat his own crushed neck, courtesy of Jazz's earlier assault. It was a simple matter of popping out the dents, so he didn't bother to ask First Aid for help. All he needed was a mirror to see what he was doing. Considering who gave him such an injury, Prowl was quite relieved to be _alive_. There had been such a desperate light in Jazz's optics while they fought that he knew the saboteur had been capable of doing nearly _anything_. One wrong move and Jazz would have flung himself headfirst back into the insanity he'd once revelled in. Thankfully, their fight had been brief, and Prowl was under the distinct impression that Jazz had only been fighting because he didn't know what else to do.

Once done with his repairs, Prowl cycled cool air through his vents, enjoying the feeling of taking air in and out of his frame unimpeded. His frame sighed, joints relaxing, tension wires easing, hydraulics resting. He recognized that he was _calm_ in Jazz's presence, a shocking contrast to the past couple of orns, which had shown a dramatic increase in his stress levels to nearly beyond what he could handle without shutting down his emotional centre. He had originally attributed the excess stress to Bluestreak's tenuous fate at the hands of the Decepticons. Now he found himself reconsidering the matter. Jazz's presence seemed to elicit a stronger reaction within him compared to Bluestreak's welfare, which was a disturbing discovery to say the least.

Prowl cut a quick look to his silver companion to discreetly assess him again. As he did, he was surprised to find that someone was already watching him. When they caught each other's optics, they looked away quickly.

"We're coming into Iacon now," Sideswipe suddenly announced from the cockpit.

First Aid was the only one to react verbally. He smiled in relief and thanked the red twin warmly for his quick flying.

Jazz nudged Prowl and flicked his visor up to properly roll his optics for the tactician. _"It's not like he did anything more difficult than fly in a straight line." _

"_First Aid is just relieved to be home where Ratchet will able to help Bluestreak." _

Jazz shrugged, one hand lifting to grasp one of the bars that hung above their seat. He braced himself for docking in Iacon's hangar. Prowl reached up and did the same. Sideswipe might have been an expert pilot when he wanted to be, but docking was a talent he had yet to perfect. There came a rough jolt as the roof of the ship skimmed the top of the hangar's entrance, followed by a loud slap-crack as the side of the ship collided with one of the docking arms.

Sunstreaker startled online from the noise, instantly shoving his brother from the pilot's chair and taking over. Although he was not as proficient at flying as his brother, the golden twin could dock a ship like nobody's business. It was one of the many strange curiosities about the twins; where one lacked in an ability, the other made up for it.

First Aid went about disconnecting Bluestreak's anchored berth from the wall, the hover pads on the bottom keeping the slab of metal suspended in the air. Bluestreak was still heavily sedated, looking too much like a corpse as he laid there quietly.

The hatch in the side of the ship cracked open with a hiss as the carry hold depressurized. Prowl instantly felt Jazz's tension mount again, like a spring coiled to the point of snapping. If he was backed into a defensive position, it would do no one any good. For the sake of continued peace, Prowl to grasped Jazz's thigh and gripped it tight, anchoring the silver mech to his seat.

"Just sit," he ordered quietly.

A long, low growl was his reply.

Ratchet's head appeared in the hatchway, sweeping the carrying hold before focusing on Bluestreak. First Aid wheeled the berth around and brought it to the CMO, rattling off the list of damages he had encountered so far. He ended with the small bit of good news he had; he had managed to put a few short memories back into place. It was a small victory, but nonetheless, it was something to offer hope. Bluestreak was not a lost cause just yet.

"If it hadn't been for Jazz severing the memory loop when he did, Bluestreak wouldn't have been so lucky," First Aid concluded, nodding toward Jazz.

Ratchet swung around to cast the saboteur a briefly shocked look.

"Ya doubt mah skills, Ratch?" Jazz drawled, tilting his chin up challengingly. He was wound so tight that if the medic said the wrong words, it would be a fight. Prowl's grip on his thigh tightened as the tactician quickly calculated how bad a fight might get in such an inclosed space.

Ratchet smirked harshly. "Doubt your skills? Never. Doubt you? Yes, nearly every time I think of you," he said. One thick optic ridge arched. "I didn't expect to see you here at all."

Jazz met Ratchet's stare with a smirk that was convincingly arrogant. "Ya know meh, Ratch'- Ah just love doing the unexpected."

"Of course you do," grumbled the medic, no short amount of sarcasm lacing his tone. With no more time to spare, he turned his attentions to Bluestreak, he and First Aid gliding the berth down the ramp and straight to med bay. It was going to be a long, hard process getting the sniper back to his old self.

From behind Jazz and Prowl, there came a drawn out groan and the sound of parts cracking back into place as someone stretched. Swinging around, both bots noted that the twins had left the cockpit. Sunstreaker's expression revealed nothing; he was still the cold blank slate he usually was, even though his optics lingered on the hatchway. Sideswipe was easier to read, his faceplate openly caught between a smile and a grimace as he bounced on his feet lightly. Glad to be home at the same time he was dreading what his brother's and his fate would be for supposedly bolting on their own.

"Sideswipe..." Prowl began, rising from his seat. Guilt sparked within him. "I can explain that this was all my idea. Now that you are no longer in the field, there is no danger to you if I divulge the details-."

Sideswipe cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Don't worry about it. Nothing's going to happen that hasn't been done to us a thousand times before."

Sunstreaker didn't even bother to look at Prowl. Instead, he let his ice-like optics settle on Jazz. They sized each other up for a moment, and then the golden one inclined his head. It was either a silent 'thank you' or a 'glad you're back', but no words were said to give voice to the small gesture. Jazz nodded in return, not needing words to understand.

The twins took the lead disembarking from the ship, Prowl and Jazz deciding to take up the rear. The hangar was the same as it ever was- cavernous and busy. What came as a surprise was the small applause that the four mechs got with their appearance on the ramp. It was enough to stun them for a moment, and then Sideswipe took the lead in absorbing the accolades with exaggerated gusto.

Jazz growled softly, turning his head toward Prowl a fraction. "Ah never should have come back."

"You're here now, though. You might as well make the best of it," replied Prowl.

Jazz looked away. Prowl remained watching his companion for a fraction longer, reaching on odd suspicion that the saboteur did not like the applause he was getting. Was it embarrassing him? That didn't seem likely, since Jazz utterly lacked shame in any form. Although, now that he thought about it, Prowl recalled a curious behavioural pattern with the silver mech; shallow praise for showing off was greeted with superiority and smug expectation, but sincere praise for a job well done was met with reluctance and mild hostility.

They were nearly to the bottom of the ramp when Prowl quietly asked, "Why don't you like it when someone thanks you?"

Jazz almost missed a step, only to catch himself in time. He shot the tactician a glare which then melted into something less acidic and more stubborn. "It's not something Ah'm used to."

"Oh." Prowl suspected it was more than that. Despite his intensely narcissistic personality, it was as if Jazz believed he didn't deserve that kind of recognition. Wisely, Prowl kept his observation to himself, because he knew that it would not go over well if he chose to voice it.

There was a small gathering at the bottom of the ramp waiting for them, none of which had been among the bots applauding. Optimus Prime was there, looking regal and stern as he watched the quartet descend. Ironhide was predictably at the Prime's side, arms crossed over his broad chest. Elita One and Blackhawk were also present for some reason, the former looking relieved that everyone had returned relatively unharmed, while the latter was casting his optics back and forth between Prowl and Jazz calculatingly.

Optimus straighten as his warriors came to the end of the ramp, gathering on the solid floor in front of him. He did not let his relief show that his bots were back. He was also careful not to reveal his surprise in discovering the one wild card he had grown accustomed to having around had been convinced to return to Iacon base. Nevertheless, something must have shown on his faceplate, because Jazz picked up on it almost immediately.

"Disappointed to see meh again?" the saboteur drawled, misreading the look he'd seen.

"Quite the opposite," Optimus replied evenly.

Jazz jerked back, mouthplates thinning.

Optimus pressed on, deciding he had little to lose by saying a few words. "I am rather relieved to see you well, and deeply grateful that you went after Bluestreak in the first place. If not for you, I'm afraid we might not have gotten to him in time."

Such a simple statement left the saboteur without a proper barb to throw back at the Prime. Instead, he huffed and grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest tightly. "Whatever. It wasn't that hard ta get the half-bit outta there."

The sides of Optimus's mouthplates twitched, as if resisting the urge to smile.

Sideswipe cleared his vents pointedly. "So, um, me and Sunny are tired and all, so if you'd all excuse us, we're going to go pass out in our quarters." He spun on his heel and tried to make a break for the exit, Sunstreaker calmly following a few steps behind him.

"Hold it, you two," Elita One called after them. Mid-step, the pair froze, and then turned around reluctantly. Unlike most authority figures, Elita One held definitive power over the twins; having once been Sunstreaker's mentor when he had been a young thing learning to be a painter, she was one of the few connections the twins had to their former lives that they had yet to burn.

"You have some explaining to do," Optimus intoned grimly, one optic ridge arched.

Prowl tensed, watching the twins avidly. This was the moment that they were free to blame him for the whole fiasco. They could easily get away scuff-free if they said he had ordered them to go out after Jazz. His relationship with them was volatile at best; they did not like him, and he could not say that he favoured them in the least. It was a perfect circumstance for them to lay the blame at his feet and let him take all the heat for it.

Sideswipe gathered himself up and grinned brightly, full of his usual mischief. His gaze flickered once to Prowl before focusing on Optimus Prime. "Oh, you know how it is, Prime. Me and Sunny- we need big open spaces and room to drive. Iacon just got so _confining_. The open road was practically begging us for a drive. And wouldn't you know? We ran into Jazz along the way! Coincidence, huh?"

"Yes, what a coincidence," Optimus drawled, clearly not believing a word of it. He'd have to be an idiot to fall for it.

Ironhide snorted quietly in the background.

"Weren't you two supposed to be in the _brig_, rather than taking irresponsible joyrides?" Optimus intoned. "If I am not mistaken, it was Prowl who assigned you to the brig in the first place."

"It's not exactly the first time we've ever disregarded orders." Sideswipe shrugged, meeting the Prime's stare. "Beside, Prowl's got a stick up his exhaust pipe. Who wants to listen to a glitch like him?" He tilted his chin up defiantly, challenging the mech to call him on the bluff.

Elita One turned her optics on Sunstreaker. "Is that so, Sunny?"

The golden mech scowled deeply. "We were acting under our own volition."

Prowl very nearly gaped. He was saved from making such a slip by having Jazz's sharp elbow ram into his side. Quickly, he fixed his expression to betray nothing.

"If that is the case, then you know your way to the brig," Optimus said. "You'll be there for as many orns as you saw fit to be away from base without leave."

"Yeah, like we didn't see that coming," Sideswipe snorted. "Come on, Sunny. We got brig cells with our designations on them."

They left the hangar without further incident.

Once gone, the Prime's attention was once again on Prowl and Jazz. A moment passed when the Prime watched Prowl carefully, as surprised as the tactician was that the twins had not given him away. Since everyone had returned as unscathed as could be expected from such a mission, and Prime had given his word not to pursue the matter if that stipulation was met, Prowl would not be following the twins to the brig. He and his rank were safe from reprimand.

Jazz shifted when he noticed the Prime's attention turned from Prowl to himself. Immediately, he was on the defensive again. "Don't think ya can get away with sending meh ta the brig like the twins. Ah ain't no Autobot."

"As I understand things, at the time you went after Bluestreak, you had disassociated from the Autobots. Being a free agent, I have no say in your activities," Optimus said with a slight inclination of his head. "Of course, since you did do this out of the kindness of your own spark, you deserve my utmost gratitude."

Jazz scowled. "Ah don't need your gratitude. Ah just need the wash racks and a berth ta recharge in."

Optimus turned and swept his arm to the exit. "You have both here. The wash racks are still where they've always been, and no one has touched your quarters since you've left."

"Good thing, too, since Ah had the place booby trapped."

Blackhawk discreetly turned his faceplate away, hiding the humoured smirk that crossed his features.

"When you are rested up, I hope we can have a debriefing to discuss what happened in the Decepticon camp," Optimus said carefully.

Jazz considered the matter, then tilted one shoulder up. "If Ah feel like it, Ah'll contact ya." He made a move to leave, but stopped when a large hand came down on his shoulder. Not the Prime's, and not Special Ops nor the femme commander. It was _Ironhide_. Jazz extended his claws, expecting an attack to come. Prowl tensed as well, unsure what Ironhide, of all mechs, could be planning.

A deep rumble sounded, then the words, "You did good."

Sufficed to say, it was more than just Jazz and Prowl to be shocked to hear the low declaration.

Jazz was the first to recover; he smirked, jerking his shoulder away from the weapons specialist's touch. "Never thought Ah'd ever hear ya say those words."

"Never thought I'd say them," Ironhide replied.

"Then let's just keep this at a once-in-a-lifetime thing, shall we? 'Cause Ah ain't planning ta be the hero again any time soon." He breezed past the larger mech, sidestepped the Prime, and didn't even bother to look at Blackhawk or Elita One as he passed them.

Prowl stood rooted to the spot, watching Jazz's retreating back with a curious mix of familiarity and incredulity.

Blackhawk cleared his vents quietly, catching Prowl's optic. "Aren't you going to go after him?"

"Oh? Yes, of course." Spurred into action, Prowl bypassed the commanders in order to trace after the silver mech. He staunchly ignored how too many sets of optics followed his progress out of the hangar. The rumour mill would have a fresh infusion of wild stories now that Jazz was back and Prowl was already following after him. In the saboteur's absence, gossip had been quiet and bored. Prowl could only imagine how wild and illicit the hearsay was going to be now.

Jazz had not managed to go far when Prowl finally caught up to him. They said nothing to each other as the tactician slowed to match pace with the saboteur. Their journey to the nearest wash racks was peppered with various salutations tossed their way; most Autobots were aware of the silver mech's most recent exploit into the borderlands to rescue Bluestreak, and none held back their ecstatic exclamations to see him back. The energetic reception only served to sour Jazz's mood until it was nothing but a dark storm cloud. He really didn't take honest praise well at all.

The moment they made it to the wash racks, Jazz stormed in and grabbed Prowl's wrist, whipping the tactician inside so violently that Prowl nearly stumbled. The door hissed closed and was locked with a code that probably not even Primus could undo.

"You're taking this rather badly," Prowl pointedly out blandly, standing in the middle of the tiled room.

"Mute it!" Jazz snarled, marching to the nearest shower and turning it on at the highest temperature.

Prowl did as he was bid simply because it was the simplest action to take.

Jazz soaked himself beneath the steaming liquid. It was water mixed with citric acid to help slough off the dirt and dried gore that still stubbornly stuck to him. The mild acid added a tangy scent to the damp air, making the rising steam teem with an exotic thrill. He grabbed a nearby wash cloth and started to violently scrub himself, chipping away his accumulated grime as if he could score off all the kindness that had been offered to him. Someone's soap had been left behind in one of the notches on the wall, so he used the stuff indiscriminately; soon his frame was frothing with white suds, but still it was not enough to get rid of the praise he did not want.

In a fit of frustration, he flung the cloth away. Both hands came up to brace himself against the wall, turning his faceplate up to the cascading water to let the boiling stream wash over him, working its way through his frame in a semi-calming manner, ridding him of the damned froth of soap coating him.

Prowl considered the sudden emotion that stuck him as he watched the silver mech struggle with himself, finding that he felt _bad_ for Jazz's confusion. Mostly because _he_ was the cause of such confusion. If he had not gone out with the intention of bringing Jazz back, the silver mech most certainly would not be in the mental situation he was in now. However, Prowl was determined not to feel too badly for his actions, because from the moment Jazz had chosen to seek out Bluestreak, Prowl had known that he had to bring Jazz back. This was the place where the saboteur belonged now, even if he didn't realize it yet.

Without knowing what else to do, he bent to pick up the discarded cloth and approached. In a gesture he never imagined he would ever offer to someone who could be considered one of the most dangerous bots on the planet, Prowl placed the wash cloth to the center of Jazz's back and wiped away a streak of dirt.

"Don't touch meh," Jazz snapped, shirking away from him.

"You can't reach your back," Prowl replied, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

This was apparently the wrong this to say, because Jazz hissed angrily. "Ah don't need your help."

"I'm offering anyways." He reached out to touch the saboteur again, but was countered by a violent smack to his hands. The cloth made a wet _splat_ sound as it landed on the floor. Prowl's world jerked when he found a pair of hands grabbing him by the armour, holding him captive. Jazz was in his faceplate, the glare of his visor blinding the tactician. Every wet inch of the silver mech was pressed against Prowl's storm-grey armour.

"Ah want ya ta tell meh something right now, and ya better be straight with meh or Ah swear Ah'll dismantle ya," Jazz said lowly, dangerously.

Prowl nodded his acquiescence.

"Why were ya on that ship?" the saboteur hissed. His hands relaxed, withdrawing from Prowl's armour; he didn't release him completely, though. His palms rested against the metal, the very tips of his claws scratching against the paint. Those claws could easily slit the energon lines in Prowl's neck, or he could force them under Prowl's armour and straight into his sparkcase.

One dark optic ridge arched. "Do I honestly need to answer that?"

"Ah wanna hear it from your damned mouthplates."

"Fine," Prowl sighed. "This is where you belong."

"No, it's not!" Jazz slammed his palms into Prowl's chest, forcing the taller mech back a step. "Ah told ya Ah didn't want ta come back here."

"Then why did you let me convince you?"

A strangled noise erupted from the silver mech, much like a trapped animal who had no idea where to go anymore. He raised his arms to strike out again, but Prowl circled his wrists and held him tight.

"I know you need an outlet for your frustration, but I don't want to fight right now. We're both tired. I'd rather talk."

"Damn ya ta the pit," Jazz spat, ripping away from Prowl's hold. "You're a fragger, ya know that? A certified fragger!"

"This is not the first time I've been called that," Prowl said blandly.

Jazz snorted violently. "Primus only knows, but Ah should have killed ya all those chances Ah had. Every time you're around, ya manage ta make mah life that much worse!"

"I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused, I really am," Prowl murmured sincerely. "But is it really that bad to have a home and bots who give a damn about you?"

"Ah don't need that slag."

"You don't _want_ it, but I think this is something you _need._" Prowl dared a step forward, close enough to that nearly every part of him touched every part of Jazz. He stooped for the cloth again, meeting the saboteur's gaze as he placed the wet material against the silver mech's armour. He didn't move; the cloth was merely a metaphorical reference.

Jazz's hand came down on his and tugged the cloth away. A magnetic pulse jolted from his palm, forcing Prowl's hand to drop the cloth to the floor again. "Ah don't need you."

"I never said you did."

Rivulets of water traced down Jazz's frame, catching under the fluorescent lights like diamonds. He opened his mouthplates, then closed them again; he could find no words to say. As his mind worked furiously, he was reminded of how intensely exhausted his frame was. He swayed, and then backed up a step to sit down on the bench beneath the shower spray.

"Ya just had ta be the one Ah interrogated in Straxis, didn't ya?" he sighed quietly.

Prowl sat down without invitation, sitting on the very edge of the bench a polite distance away. "I have no control over how fate works."

Jazz made a quiet noise, almost like a laugh.

A hand reached out, laid to the top of the saboteur's. "Jazz, no one is making you stay here. You came because you wanted to, and you stay for the same reasons. You are becoming as much a part of this place as anyone here-." His hand tightened when he saw Jazz recoiling. "That is _not_ a bad thing, Jazz."

"It's not a good thing, either," the saboteur replied.

"Even if you do not see the fact that you need to be here, would it change your mind if I said I needed you?" Prowl intoned carefully. It was a confession he had been reluctant to admit, but given the circumstance, he deigned it appropriate to announce.

Jazz's optics flashed behind his visor. "Ya _what_?"

"Not romantically," the tactician was quick to assure. "_Never_ romantically. But your absence did underscore something that I had not realized before. You and I have developed an unexpected partnership over the past vorn. We work well together, and I suspect that this is the first time either of us have found an individual who compliments our unique abilities. I, for one, am reluctant to throw away such an advantageous arrangement."

A derisive snort shot from Jazz's vents. "You're kidding, right? We've both worked alone for most of our lives and that's served us just fine so far. There's no reason ta change a winning formula."

"We are far more formidable when we pool our resources," Prowl pointed out. Briefly, he remembered his original motive for bringing Jazz to Iacon; to make the saboteur into an Autobot to give their side an exponential advantage. He had seen Jazz as a formidable addition to the Autobot forces, as well as a stunning challenge to himself to see if he could manipulate the ultimate manipulator. The desire for that challenge was still there, but now Prowl found that he simply wanted Jazz in Iacon- not for his abilities, but simply for himself.

Jazz's mouthplates curled back in distaste. "Why are ya pushing this so hard? So what if Ah got Bluestreak out? Ain't nothing that a team of yours would have been able ta do." Well, maybe not, considering it would have been Shockwave they were up against, but if it had been any other bot running the show, the Autobots probably would have gotten away... Yeah, probably. Jazz growled, gesturing to Prowl with a quick flick of his hand. "Ya don't need meh at all. Ya even seem ta have your EMO problem under control."

Prowl shook his head. "The reason I am insisting on this is because I _want_ you here. And much to the contrary, I do _not_ have my condition under control. The only reason I seem unaffected is because nothing especially traumatizing has happened yet."

Jazz arched an optic ridge.

Prowl felt the gesture even if he didn't see it. "I would not label you leaving as a particularly traumatizing event, Jazz- no matter how highly you think of yourself. It was merely another concern among the thousands I carry, granted you did take more precedence in my mind than I would have liked."

"Glad ta know ya think about meh," Jazz drawled. He leaned back on the bench, resting his back against the wall. His exhaustion was more pronounced now, his shoulders drooping lower than ever before. It looked like it took more effort that Jazz would have cared to admit to keep his frame upright and online.

Prowl reached for Jazz, only stopping when the saboteur tensed. Their gazes matched, and then Prowl inclined his head expectantly. Jazz eased back, but still watched the progress of the tactician's hand. It travelled up, grasping the control for the shower and turning it off. There was no point in wasting resources, especially when the water had turned lukewarm already and was heading into ice cold. Done with the task, Prowl drew back to his side of the bench. His expression was neutral, borderline solemn.

"If Bluestreak had died, I imagine I would have been in for a very nasty downward spiral," he admitted quietly.

"Ya would have found some way ta blame yourself," Jazz intoned. "Ya blame yourself for things that aren't even your fault."

"It is one of my many failings." Prowl let his gaze fall to the floor. "I appreciate that you held such confidence in me to believe that I could work through this on my own, but I have to confess that I don't have that confidence in myself. If I managed to fail to properly control my emotions the first time around, I fear to think what would become of me the second time around."

Jazz tilted his head back, his horns chinking against the tiled wall behind him. Steam still lingered in the air, making it warm and damp. Both their frames were slick with droplets of water, a mist of condensation clinging to them.

"Ya know, Ah was just sayin' slag ta get meh outta here. Ah didn't actually think ya could do anything without meh."

Prowl stared for several long astroseconds, and then sighed expansively. "At least we are of the same opinion."

Jazz cycled damp air through his vents slowly, exhaling just as slowly. His gaze, shielded by his visor, was nonetheless a burning presence as it turned to Prowl and travelled over his frame. He could feel the saboteur's optics on him almost as a physical touch.

"So... a partnership, huh?" murmured the silver mech.

"It would seem that way," Prowl replied.

"It would probably only make bots around here worse," Jazz grumbled.

"The rumour mill will be exploding with wild accusations," Prowl pointed out lightly, resting his back against the tiled wall in the same manner Jazz was.

"Sideswipe's in the the brig right now, so their main contributor is out of commission for the time being..." the saboteur said consideringly.

Prowl shot his companion an arched look. "And I have no doubt that you have your own ways to deal with the rest."

"Ah have mah own ways, alright," Jazz replied wryly, the corners of his mouthplates turning up. "But coming back here don't mean Ah'm one of you now, got that? It don't mean Ah'm gonna be going after every lost spark dumb enough ta get caught by 'Cons. And Ah ain't taking no oaths or wearing no faction symbols. Ah'll work with ya, Prowler, but Ah'm still gonna be mah own mech."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Prowl replied with a brief smile, content with the arrangement.


	23. Chapter 23

Special thanks to everyone who sent their well wishes for me to get better. I am feeling much better now. ^_^ It was great fun teasing some of you with the shower scene of the last chapter; I know it was disappointing not to have them get it on right away, but don't you think that would ruin the sexual tension I've been developing thus far? There's so much more in their relationship to tease you all with before anyone is willing to admit anything... *evil grin*

Massive thanks to the reviewers of the last chapter: **Optimus Bob, phoebe turner, Got Buttermilk, Faecat, renegadewriter8, Kai-Chan94, Jinx, Darkeyes17, Christina, Knocks, femme4jack, CNightJoy, aughoti, FoghornLeghorn83, smoking caramels, A Lurker, Nightblooming Orchid, Daklog73, BoredTech, Midnight Marquis, Pruhana, kathy3meme, Peacewish, Patcher, sparklespepper, JenEvan, ChaosGarden, Uniasus, Chikku-Chikku, Sideslip, DitzyMusicLover**, and **Nanodiode. **Your kind words, brilliant insight, and enthusiastic comments are the best inspiration a writer could ever hope for, and apparently you are the cure to the common cold as well! ^_^

Read, Review, and Enjoy~

**Chapter 23**

Joints stiff and his head uncharacteristically fuzzy, Jazz rolled over on the berth he laid on and absorbed his surroundings. Just by the feel of the room- the touch of the air against his armour, the specific dips in the berth below him, the scents that lingered- he knew he wasn't in _his_ room. His quarters were still located in the bowels of Iacon, farthest from the command center and dangerously near Wheeljack's labs; his room was usually cold, the berth was mostly flat because it hadn't been abused enough to mould to its user's shape, and the scent of his room was musty and stale with a lingering burnt smell from Wheeljack's many accidents. The room he was currently in was moderately warm, the berth beneath him had a defined dip in it from someone recharging there regularly, and the scent was crisp, clean, and familiar.

Nearby, he heard the squeak of a chair being moved.

"You're online, I see," someone said.

Jazz turned his head toward the sound, already knowing who it was before he scanned for a spark resonance. He let his optics flicker online to focus on the storm-grey figure sitting at the desk close by.

Prowl offered a small smile, leaning back in his chair. "Good morning."

"Your quarters?" Jazz asked, though it was more of a rhetorical question than anything. He already knew the room was Prowl's. He'd snuck in here enough times to have memorized the place. These were Prowl's actual quarters in the main barracks, not the room he had been using near Jazz's to make sure the saboteur didn't do anything naughty. Like Prowl himself, his room was utilitarian with only the basics; a berth, a desk, and several filing cabinets with each drawer carefully labelled.

"Of course," Prowl replied with a slight shrug.

"Ah recharged here?" Jazz wondered quietly, running his palm over his faceplate, scrubbing away his drowsiness. His voice was rough, like someone had taken a sandblaster to his vocal processor. A couple of alerts flashed across his vision- he needed more recharge, needed some fresh energon, but nothing too pressing.

The tactician inspected the tips of his long, dextrous fingers. In a nonchalant tone, he said, "No, I knocked you unconscious and dragged you here."

Jazz arched an optic ridge incredulously.

Prowl rolled his optics. "Of course you recharged here. You even walked the whole way on your own steam."

"Aren't you the funny mech in the mornings," Jazz drawled. "Remind meh never ta online around ya again."

"I will keep that in mind," Prowl replied. "If it is any better explanation to your presence here, you were exhausted and your quarters were nearly on the other side of the base. It was only logical to let you stay here."

Of course, it was only _logical_ to let him stay here.

Jazz sat up slowly, stretching so that several slates of armour cracked back into place. He rolled his shoulders, then cracked his neck, wriggled his fingers- getting the lubricant flowing again so his joints stopped feeling so stiff. Once done, he eased back to sit against the wall. The polymer covering on the berth was comfortably worn down, feeling good to sit on.

"Your berth is more comfortable than mine," the saboteur pointed out.

"I've had time to break it in," Prowl replied, arching an optic ridge.

Jazz nodded, looking about the room before returning his gaze to Prowl. "So, did we...?"

Prowl frowned, instantly wary of what the saboteur might be insinuating. "Did we what?"

"Ya know- meh, you, a little plug'n'play action?" He gestured between his interface panel and the Prowl's. His optic ridges arched and a sly smile played at his mouthplates. "'Cause if we _did_, Ah'd kinda like ta know."

"Now who is being the funny mech?" Prowl shook his head, the corners of his mouthplates tugging up in his familiar almost smile. "I've resisted your advances for over a vorn. Do you really think I would give in to a moment of wantonness the moment you were passed out and vulnerable on my berth?"

"Ah would if our positions were reversed," Jazz said casually.

"That's lovely, Jazz- it speaks volumes of your integrity," Prowl drawled. He stretched his long legs out and crossed them at the ankle, his hands folded casually in his lap.

"What integrity?" Jazz laughed, surprising himself by the sound. So soon after returning to the one place he never wanted to see again and he was relaxed enough to laugh and tease? It was either he was still exhausted and in desperate need of more recharge to get his faculties under control, or else the energon Ratchet had prescribed him truly did have some kind of heinous drug slipped into it.

Prowl canted his head gently, as if sensing the internal dilemma that suddenly hit the saboteur. His voice was smooth and rich as he said, "There is a sliver of honour hiding away in that spark of yours."

"It's pending removal. Splinters are annoying when they dig in," Jazz replied lightly, sliding to his feet. He wandered forward until he stood directly in front of Prowl, leaning down to brace his hands on the arm rests of the chair, their faceplates lingering only a breath apart. Jazz met Prowl's unblinking stare with pure challenge. "Honour or not, if Ah _did_ take advantage of ya, you'd like every moment of it."

"You've only been back for a single night and you think you're up for the challenge?" Prowl asked, shaking his head wryly. He didn't bother to back away, even with Jazz leaning in so close. His captivating almost smile still played across his mouthplates, threatening to stretch into a full smile.

Jazz leaned in a little closer, so close that their personal magnetic fields played against each other. Their harmonics were entirely out of sync, causing an electric sensation to rush over their armour as their fields challenged each other. "Ah am definitely up for the challenge, any time of orn or night."

Prowl inclined his head, the blueness of his optics deepening for a moment. "I have no doubt."

Slowly, Jazz slid his visor up so that he had an unimpeded view of the tactician he had at his mercy. He looked the same since the orn they had met, and yet everything but the physical details was different. Jazz knew this mech... and at the same time, he didn't. Prowl had been his prey first, then his challenge, and now his... partner. The word left a weird, churning feeling in his mind when he thought about it. He'd never had a partner before.

As if to test the new boundaries between them, he hitched his knee on the edge of the chair, levering himself up over Prowl. The tactician did nothing to stop him. Indeed, he seemed just as curious to allow Jazz to test whatever boundaries he was trying. His long legs spread, giving Jazz more room on the chair's edge for more leverage. Prowl's optics remained calculating, but not as detached as he might have liked. The deepened blue of his gaze was mesmerizing.

"This isn't the time, Jazz," Prowl murmured.

"Why not? Ah thought ya always made time for meh," Jazz drawled, leaning a fraction closer.

"You just got back; you're still disoriented, exhausted, and perhaps a little bit out of your mind. You should allow yourself time to acclimate to this environment," Prowl said, leaning away a fraction.

Jazz smirked. "Does that mean there'll be time for this later?"

"What?" Prowl's optics flashed. "No, of course not. That's not at all what I meant."

"Alright, fine, that's not what ya meant. Tell meh one thing, though... Have ya ever thought about it, Prowler?" Jazz purred, moving his hands to brace against Prowl's broad shoulders.

"Thought about what?" Prowl asked, and the saboteur was satisfied to note that the mech's voice was not as calm as it had been a few moments before. The timbre was richer, giving way to an emotion that the tactician was probably trying to stamp out.

"_Us_," Jazz breathed, enjoying every moment of the show. It was all about control, after all. How far could he go...? How far would Prowl let him go..? Who would give in first...?

Prowl cleared his vents carefully. "_Us_?"

Jazz offered a sly smile. "Haven't ya ever wondered what it would be like if you an' Ah put our minds together?"

"We've already put our minds together before," Prowl pointed out, purposely choosing to be obtuse. His hands came up, trailing up the front of Jazz's legs until he gripped him at the pelvis as if to pull him closer or push him away. His fingers grasped the metal hard; if he had had claws, he would have scratched the paint off.

Jazz liked that he didn't give in so easily. That's what he truly admired about Prowl- that he never gave in to the challenge; he always fought back. After so many orns dealing with little pests who bent under his will with barely a thought, having some resistance was refreshing. If there was anything about Iacon that he would have missed, it would have been defiance that Prowl offered in every clash they had.

"That was for business," drawled the saboteur. One hand slid over the curve of a storm-grey shoulder, gliding down the warm metal to the doorwings splayed from the tactician's back. He was pitiless as he delved his fingers into the crevice between the appendage and Prowl's back. Sensitivity worked both ways- for pain or for pleasure. The noise that escaped Prowl's mouthplates after a magnetic pulse ran through him was not of pain.

"What about pleasure?" Jazz purred. "Have you ever wondered what it would be like? 'Cause Ah'd be lying if Ah said Ah never wondered." His claws continued to play with the tension wires in the tactician's back like he was playing with puppet strings. Resist as he might, Jazz knew the mech was not unaffected. The blueness of his optics continued to deepen, his frame clenching tight. "Come on, Prowler- knowing what Ah know about ya... We'd be _explosive_ together."

Prowl sucked in a deep drag of air, cycling it like his life depended on it. When he let it out, it seemed he regained some control over himself. His gaze met Jazz's as his hands left the saboteur's sides, travelling up to take his forearms and pluck his hands away from his back.

"The thing about explosions, Jazz, is that they're over far too quickly and leave more damage behind than what they're worth."

In one smooth movement, Prowl rose to his feet, forcing Jazz to do the same. As soon as they were standing, Prowl released the saboteur's arms and stepped away, putting some breathing room between them so that their magnetic fields no longer lingered together.

Jazz knew the game was over now, but he couldn't be sure who had won this round.

"We're partners now," said the tactician, his hands brushing down his front as if to remove any tingling traces of Jazz on him.

Jazz crossed his arms in front of his chest, tilting his chin up. "Yeah, so?"

"I try not to mix business with pleasure," Prowl replied, his optics flickering to Jazz's for a moment. "It never turns out well."

"It'd be good while it lasted, though," Jazz replied with a shrug.

Prowl's almost smile made another tempting appearance. "I can tell that you're only doing this to see if you can get a rise out of me. You have no sincere interest in me, other than to see what ways you can torment me." He shook his head. "You should have chosen an easier target."

Jazz smirked. "Why would Ah do a thing like that? Ah got plenty of a reaction out of ya already." His smirk widened as he took a step forward, enjoying the fact that Prowl didn't take a step back but did tense in expectation. Jazz laid the tip of one claw to the armour of Prowl's chest and ran the digit down slowly, tracing the powerful contours of the tactician's frame. Prowl's optics darkened once again. "See? Ah think Ah win this round."

Prowl snorted, stepping away. "I let you win only because I am happy to have you back."

"Keep telling yourself that," Jazz laughed.

"I will, thank you." He turned to his desk and collected several data pads that he must have been working on throughout the night, because obviously he hadn't bothered to recharge. "Now if you will excuse me, I have to submit a few reports before the first shift starts. You're welcome to got back into recharge if you want. I won't be here to disturb you."

Jazz shrugged. "Ah'm online now. Might as well face the orn."

"Just try not to hurt anyone if they choose to be nice to you today," Prowl warned lightly, making his way to the door.

"No promises," Jazz replied, smirking.

The door hissed open into a quiet corridor with no one around to see two bots exiting a room meant for one. They travelled together out of the barracks peacefully and parted ways when Prowl turned toward the command centre and Jazz went in the opposite direction. It was then that Prowl called back to Jazz, causing the saboteur to pause in his next step, turning around to regard the tactician.

"Ya need something?" he asked.

"No," Prowl intoned, turning the corner of his mouthplates up. "I never properly answered your question earlier. I have thought about it."

Jazz arched an optic ridge.

"You and I, that is. I have thought about it before," the tactician admitted evenly, as if he was discussing something as simple as the weather. "But just because I've considered the possibility doesn't mean I wish to make it reality."

"There's a first time for everything," Jazz replied with a devilish smirk.

"Not for this," Prowl said, and then inclined his head. "Although, I must admit- I've missed your ridiculous propositions. Curbing your enthusiasm never ceases to be entertaining."

"Aww, when ya say things like that, it only make meh wanna try harder," Jazz laughed.

Prowl shook his head, offering a low, handsome sound like a laugh. "Have a good orn settling back in, Jazz. You know where to find me if you need anything."

"And ya know how ta find meh," said the saboteur, turning on his heel to finally make his way to his intended destination. Behind him, he could hear Prowl's footsteps grow distant as he went on his way.

Since it was still early, somewhere between the dregs of the night shift finishing up and the first shift of the orn beginning, Iacon was still relatively quiet. There were only a few bots around to spot Jazz, and they did not make such a fuss as the ones who had greeted the saboteur the orn before. Most of them were too tired to make much of a fuss, though they did offer polite smiles and nods of their heads. They showed no fear of him at all.

It was odd, uncomfortable, and Jazz didn't like it, but he allowed it to pass without comment. Prowl had been right to observe that he didn't like it when bots thanked him, and Jazz had been partially honest when he said it was something he wasn't used to. Truly, he had gone his entire life without being thanked for a single thing and lived with an intense distrust for everyone around him; he felt he was justified not to trust the words of others.

And the ones who did mean it when they thanked him... did he really need to hear the words when he knew he'd only hurt them later? It was such a waste of words.

He came to the med bay's entrance in the midst of his own personal thoughts, so he entered without considered who might be on the other side. Within the large, sterile room, there was the usual assortment of berths and medical equipment. There were no patients on any of the berths, and the room itself was dim with the lights turned down to its lowest setting.

Jazz cast his optics to one of the berths on the far side of the room, moving toward it silently. He touched the surface of it, feeling the light polymer covering. It was the berth Prowl had once laid on after his return from Straxis, the night Jazz had first broken out of his cell to come taunt him for fun. He recalled what he had said to the tactician that night-

_"Whatever sort of thing is between us now, it's only just begun."_

A vorn ago, it had been a threat.

He had had every intention of making his debacle into Iacon one long, drawn out game of torture; he'd wanted to get into Prowl's mind to tear it to pieces, playing with the scraps that were left until the tactician was nothing but stripped wires and raw agony.

Now... not so much.

Movement behind him had him tensing, bringing a blade to bear.

Ratchet stood unimpressed in the doorway to his small office. "I was wondering when you'd show up here."

Jazz frowned, noting that the blade he had brought out was still stained with someone's energon. He tucked it away into its hidden sheath.

"You don't look too worse for wear, I suppose," said the medic, pushing out of the doorway to make his way over. His optics were critical as he assessed the saboteur, though he didn't bother with any kind of in-depth scan. "Those scratches will heal on their own. No sign of infection anywhere... Good thing you're clean now or else I would have started to worry. A good buffing and no one should be able to tell the difference."

"Ah'm not here for treatment," Jazz snorted.

"I know," Ratchet said. "Just thought I'd offer my medical opinion anyways." He gestured to the window-lined wall at the back of the med bay, offering a view of the ICU on the other side. "Bluestreak is through there."

Jazz opened his mouthplates to point out that he wasn't there for Bluestreak either, but closed his mouthplates and chose to say nothing about it. He lurched forward, making his way to the crystalline door disguised amongst the crystalline wall. It hissed open for him, staying open so Ratchet could follow him in.

The ICU was a familiar place by now, seeing as he had put Prowl in here more than a few times after one of their training sessions together. Prowl's makeshift desk in the corner was even still there, waiting for the next time the tactician would be in for a round of repairs. Jazz noted that a few berths were in use, but he was uninterested in any of the injuries of the others. He made his way to the slim, grey form laying at the back of the ICU.

"Worked on him most of the night," Ratchet announced. "When you severed the memory loop, you did quite a bit of damage."

"Ya saying Ah shouldn't have severed it?" Jazz asked, shooting a hard look back at the pale yellow medic.

Ratchet shook his head. "No, I'm just saying you chose the lesser of two evils. If you'd done nothing, his mind wouldn't have survived long enough to make it back here."

Jazz stared down at the still form in front of him. Bluestreak looked the same as he did the orn before, except cleaner now and he'd stopped shaking. It was then that Jazz noticed that the sniper's head was in a brace. The back of his head where protective metal plating should have been, there was now a gaping dark hole.

"Ya removed his processor," the saboteur intoned, his claws tracing the brace that kept Bluestreak's empty head off the berth.

Ratchet grimaced. "I had to. It was the only way I could work on his processor properly." He moved to Bluestreak's side, patting the mech's hand. "His mind is still active, but with it detached from his frame, the damages won't effect him physically. It was the best thing I could do for him. As soon as everything is sorted out, I'll be able to put his processor back in."

Jazz nodded, moving away from Bluestreak's frame to the computer hooked up nearby. Set up in a protective container was the sniper's processor, looking so innocuous as it sat there amidst the web of cables and wires.

"May Ah?" he asked, fingers poised over the keyboard.

"Be my guest. There's nothing you can to that will make him any worse," Ratchet sighed.

His fingers flew across the keyboard as he accessed Bluestreak's processor, watching as streams of information flashed across the screen. He was mostly curious, wanting to see not only the damages but also what made the sniper tick. The data was so mixed up that he couldn't get much out of it. He noticed a live stream of active data repeating the same lines over and over:

_Periwinkle. Aquamarine. Lapis Lazuli. Teal. Azure. Ultramarine. Indigo._

All different shades of blue.

Ratchet peered over Jazz's shoulder, seeing what he was seeing. "He's been thinking that over and over ever since I got him hooked up to the computer."

"Is it some sort of mantra ta keep him focused?" Jazz asked.

"No, they're the names of his family- all of them were Security Response, like him." The medic cycled air quietly, looking away for a moment. "They all perished in the Crystal City Massacre."

"Ah knew he was a survivor..."

"You just didn't think of how much he lost?"

Jazz nodded.

Ratchet cast the saboteur a measuring look. "Were you...?"

"No, Ah wasn't involved in Crystal City." Jazz kept his gaze on the screen, refusing to look anywhere else. "Ah wasn't a Decepticon then. Ah was in Vos doing mah own thing." Albeit, his own thing wasn't much better than being a Decepticon. He had been trading drugs, weapons, information, and doing whatever he damn well pleased without a care to who he hurt or how he hurt them.

Ratchet sighed, accepting the answer. He settled back into silence for several astroseconds, watching as Jazz rapidly zipped through all the data and programming that made Bluestreak who he was. Finally, he had to ask: "Do you know who put the memory loop in him?"

"Ah do," Jazz replied quietly. When he finally had seen enough of Bluestreak's mind, he left the computer and turned back to Ratchet. "First Aid and the twins are confident ya can put him back together. Think you're up to it?"

Ratchet's mouthplates firmed into a thin line. "Yes, I'm up to it. It will take time, and I can't guarantee he'll be back one hundred percent, but I can get him as close to normal as possible."

Jazz nodded.

Ratchet propped his hip against Bluestreak's berth. "You gonna tell me who did this to him?"

"Later," Jazz sighed. "If Ah'm gonna tell anyone, Ah'll tell all of ya at the same time. Just be there for the debriefing."

"Alright, I'll be there," Ratchet assured.

Jazz nodded, turning on his heel to leave. He took a step, then paused. "Hey Ratch'."

"Yes?"

"That energon ya gave Prowl..."

A wry smile flickered onto the medic's hard faceplate. "I figured it was the least I could do."

"Thanks." He left the ICU before anything more could be said. He left the med bay all together in search of the nearest lift that would take him down several levels. He had no desire to seek out his own quarters, since they held nothing for him. It was just a small room with a berth in it, and scattered with the spoils of many successful night raids on unsuspecting Autobot rooms. Mostly it was Mirage's stuff, because Jazz found it _hilarious_ to mess with him. Instead of the level for his quarters, he went down two more until he was in the deepest place anyone could find within the boundaries of Iacon: the brig.

He made his way down the familiar corridors, scanning for the twins' spark signatures. They didn't actually have separate signatures like normal bots; Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were essentially freaks of nature, each having exactly one half of a whole signature. Whenever they were together, they only registered as a single spark. When he found the specific block housing the twins, he cracked the lock on the door and let himself in.

Sideswipe spotted him immediately through the force field and stood up to greet the saboteur. "Can you believe they only left a drone to watch us? It's insulting, really."

Jazz walked past the drone, paying it as much mind as he would a piece of furniture. "You're both big bots, so Ah'm sure you'll get over it."

"Doesn't mean I'm happy about it," Sideswipe huffed. "The only way this could get any worse is if they sent Tungsten down to watch us."

Wheeljack's microbot-sized, squeaking, squealing, practically _useless_ little drone. Yep, that would be way more insulting.

"Ya didn't have ta be here in the first place if ya didn't want ta be," Jazz pointed out, dragging a chair down the aisle to sit outside the occupied cells. Sunstreaker could be seen in the cell next to Sideswipe's, laying on the berth quietly. He was a handsome sight, even as he did nothing more than stare at the ceiling.

"Yeah, well... whatever." Sideswipe turned to the narrow berth in his cell, getting comfortable on it.

"Didn't actually expect you two ta do the noble thing," Jazz intoned.

Sunstreaker snorted quietly.

"Wasn't noble," Sideswipe shrugged. He folded his arms behind his head and looked as nonchalant as he was handsome.

"Don't tell meh you're actually starting ta _respect_ ol' Prowler," Jazz said in mock horror.

The red twin barked a laugh. "_Funny_, Jazz. Me and Sunny were going to go after Bluestreak anyways- Prowl just gave us the excuse to get moving sooner than later."

"The tracer he gave us came in handy, too," Sunstreaker intoned.

Sideswipe looked at the wall next to his shoulder, where Sunstreaker was on the other side. Then he nodded. "Yeah, the tracer was useful, too." He turned his shrewd optics on Jazz. "You gave him the tracer, didn't you? It wasn't Autobot design; definitely looked like something you might handle."

Seeing no point in lying, Jazz nodded. "If there had ever been a reason he needed ta get a hold of meh, Ah made sure he had a way."

"Figured as much," Sideswipe mumbled. "Good thing you gave it to him, or we would have been looking for you and Blue for orns." There was no particular tone in his voice; he wasn't teasing, nor was he plotting any mischief. It seemed like he was more content at the moment to accept the tracer for the tactical advantage it had been instead of mocking it as a gesture of affection between Jazz and Prowl. As soon as he was out of his cage, that was likely to change.

Jazz leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and letting his chin rest on his laced together fingers. "Ah take it you're here because ya figured ya were going ta be here anyways."

"You always were a smart bot," Sideswipe snorted. "Like I said, we were going to go anyways, he just gave us the excuse. Besides, being down here is like a vacation. Don't have no duties, don't have to listen to no one barking at us, and our energon is delivered straight to us. What more could we ask for?"

"Not mah idea of a vacation," Jazz said, regarding the cell block with distaste.

"To each their own," Sideswipe intoned lightly.

Sunstreaker sat up on his berth, watching Jazz carefully. "Why are you here, Jazz?"

"In Iacon?"

The golden twin shook his head. "No, I know why you came back." His optics lingered on Jazz, piercing through the visor with a knowing stare. There for a split second, then gone. "I want to know why you're down here with us. You don't like the brig- it's a cage to you."

Jazz leaned back in his chair. "Ah'm repaying a favour; ya helped meh out while we were out there, so the least Ah could do is help ya out here. Ah can break ya out of those cells, if ya want."

"We could get out on our own if we wanted to," Sideswipe said, rolling onto his side. "And if we got caught, we'd be put right back in here for longer."

"Or we'd get something worse," Sunstreaker intoned.

Sideswipe wrinkled his olfactory sensor. "Yeah, or worse."

Jazz nodded. "Alright, so Ah won't get ya out of here. Bet ya wanna know what's up with Blue, though."

Both warriors were instantly alert and sitting up, their bright gazes zeroing in on Jazz like burning blue lasers.

"You saw Bluestreak?" Sunstreaker demanded.

Jazz nodded. "Ah was with him before Ah came here."

"How is he?" the golden mech asked, his hands clenching on the edges of his berth.

The saboteur looked to the side, his shoulders dropping a bit. "Ratchet's confident that Bluestreak will recover, but he might not make it back ta his old self completely. Right now, his processor is outside his head, being manually sorted out. Ah looked through the data and it's pretty scrambled."

Sideswipe made a hissing noise, his fist smacking into the wall. "The bot can't catch a break, can he?"

Jazz sat silently in his chair for several moments, looking back and forth between the infamous twins. "This is personal for ya, isn't it?"

Both twins fell silent. Their gazes dropped, unable to meet Jazz's unblinking stare.

"Ah take that as a yes," Jazz said smartly.

Sideswipe hunched his shoulders, the light in his optics dimming. "When we were young, Bluestreak was the first real friend we ever made outside the stunt troupe we came from," he said lowly. "He's one of the few good things we have left from... before we went to Kaon. But Blue's a survivor. If he could make it through the Crystal City Massacre, he can get through this."

"Oh." For once, Jazz had no smart reply. He had no words at all. He actually wondered what it would be like to have a good memory of his past, something he could hold on to like the twins seemed to do. For him, there was only pain and loneliness before everything turned into a blur as the madness took over.

Sunstreaker suddenly slipped from his berth, making his way to the very end of his cell. He crouched at the limit, just before the force field fried his front. He was on level with Jazz, matching his gaze. The ice in his optics had melted very briefly. "That favour you said you owed us..."

"Yeah?"

"You can repay us by checking in on Blue every orn until we're out of here," said the golden mech.

Jazz arched an optic ridge at the simplicity of the request. "That's all?"

"That's all," Sunstreaker sighed.

The saboteur made a show of considering the option at length, lounging back in his chair and tapping his chin thoughtfully. It was a little cruel to tease the twins like that, but some habits died hard. Sunstreaker remained crouched for the duration of Jazz's consideration, while Sideswipe fidgeted nervously. Finally, when he had had his fill of letting them squirm, Jazz tipped them a half-smile. "Ah'm feeling generous toward the two of ya today, so Ah guess Ah can do that."

Sunstreaker didn't quite smile, but his relief was apparent.

Sideswipe grinned broadly. "I knew I was right when I told Moonracer you weren't that bad."

"Let's just keep that between us, shall we?" Jazz intoned tightly while still trying to maintain a playful attitude. "You'd be ruining mah reputation with slag like that, and that's liable ta make meh cranky. Ya don't want meh cranky, now do ya?"

"My mouthplates are sealed," laughed the red twin, making a sealing gesture over his mouthplates with his hands.

At the far end of the cell block, the security system chirped as the lock was disengaged, followed by the door sliding open. Much to the surprise of the three occupants of the cell block, Prowl appeared in the doorway, his hands full with an energon cube in each. When the tactician's optics landed on Jazz, he mirrored their surprised rather well with a look of his own.

"Am I interrupting something?" he wondered politely.

Jazz rose from his seat, shaking his head. "Ah was just leaving."

"If you'll wait a moment, I'll leave with you," Prowl said, swiftly crossing the cell block to the two occupied cells. He didn't have a free hand to drop the force fields, so Jazz did it for him by breaking the codes. The two cubes he'd brought with him were handed to the respective prisoners, who were so stunned to see Prowl down there with them that they accepted the cubes without a word.

"It's concentrated energon," Prowl said, stepping back to allow Jazz to erect the force fields again. "You two never got any on the ship and I checked the brig schedule to see if any was delivered to you yet and it didn't look like it. I thought now would be a good time to give you your cubes. You're probably in need of some quality fuel."

Jazz cast the tactician an appraising look, noting the shift of his feet, the certain set of his faceplate. It was unlikely Prowl would have been able to convince Ratchet to release two cubes of specially treated energon, so either he had gone to First Aid with the request or he had taken it without asking. Jazz wanted to favour the latter option simply because Prowl looked too guilty to have gone by the books on this one.

"It sure beats syphoning energon from dead mechs," Sideswipe said as he considered his cube carefully, and then his sharp optics flashed with wicked mischief. "But don't think this absolves you of what you owe us." He cracked the seal on his cube and took a swig.

Prowl grimaced. "I understand."

Jazz almost laughed. Sideswipe might have been a deadly warrior, but he was still a Kaonite merchant at spark; he would ruthlessly extort whoever he could for as much as he dared, and he'd do it for fun. Prowl was no exception. Only a few breems before, the twins had exonerated the tactician of any debt he might have owed them, and now here they were ready to take him for all he was worth. This was one of the reasons Jazz tolerated the twins so well- they liked playing by their own rules, and those rules were not always Autobot-like. He was willing to let them have their fun now, so he schooled his features; he might have been Prowl's partner, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy things at the mech's expense.

Sunstreaker lingered near the field, watching the scene play out with interest. His ice-like optics travelled between his brother and Prowl with thinly veiled amusement.

Prowl straightened his stance, holding his head up. "Name the parameters of your request."

"Nah, I don't think I will," Sideswipe replied slowly. "This is something that me and Sunny gotta think on. All you gotta know is that one of these orns, we're going to come to you for a favour." He looked like he was enjoying every moment this. "It might be tomorrow, or the next orn, or fortnight from now... maybe even a vorn. I don't forget these things, you see? When bots owe me, I get them to pay up."

"So I've heard," Prowl said tightly.

Sideswipe smirked. "One of these orns, we will come asking for a favour. When we do, you won't be allowed to question it, whatever it is. You'll just give it to us. If you don't, we can make your life even more miserable than it already is. Understand?"

There was such laughing delight in the red twin's gaze, it was nearly sickening. What was even more curious was the satisfaction that reflected in Sunstreaker's optics. They were both disgustingly delighted to have the tactician under their thumbs. All those vorns of being punished by him and they finally had their revenge.

For a very long moment, it looked like Prowl's jaw would crack from how tightly he was clenching it. Eventually, he managed to nod his head. He understood the terms of the agreement, even if he didn't like them.

Sideswipe offered a Cheshire grin. "Good. Now that we have a deal, you can go now." He toasted both Prowl and Jazz with his cube of energon. "Have a pleasant orn."

When it looked like Prowl wouldn't be able to physically wrench himself from his spot, Jazz laid his hands to the tactician's shoulders. Either the touch itself was what shocked him out of his daze, or it was the memory of what Jazz could do with his touch that had Prowl moving; whatever the reason, the storm-grey bot was like quicksilver up the cell block and into the hall. Jazz offered the twins a devilish smirk and an impressed nod of his head before he followed after the other bot at a much more reasonable pace.

Prowl waited in the hall, looking as if he had an incredibly bad taste in his mouth. When Jazz approached, he cast the saboteur a measuring stare. "Why do I get the feeling I've made a deal with the Unmaker?"

Jazz did laugh this time. "Ah wouldn't say the Unmaker, per se. More like one of his more annoying spawn."

"That is hardly a comfort to me," Prowl sighed. He scrubbed his faceplate with his hands. Jazz could practically see the gears turning the tactician's mind, desperately trying to justify the unsavoury deal he just made. Knowing him as well as he did, Jazz knew Prowl had his battle computer on and was working through a thousand different scenarios, and then figuring out a thousand possible consequences to each scenario. It was almost fun, watching him struggle to come to terms with what he'd done.

"It's not so bad," Jazz intoned lightly, bumping Prowl's shoulder with his own. It was enough to urge Prowl to start walking toward the lift. They meandered down the hall at an easy pace. "What's the worse they could ask for?"

Prowl shot him a dark look. "I've already considered the absolute worst thing they could ask for and it's not good."

Jazz canted his head, considering the volatile nature of the twins- a little bit too much like his own. He very nearly grimaced. "Yeah, never mind. It could get pretty bad."

"What is done is done, I suppose," Prowl sighed. "I did owe them."

"Sure," replied Jazz, suppressing the smirk that threatened to give him away.

They boarded the lift and reached for the controls at the same time, discovering that they were heading for the same floor. Jazz shooed Prowl's fingers out of the way and pressed the button for himself. Both ignored how in sync they were becoming, especially so soon after Jazz's return. It was discomforting to know that they could return to their old habits so easily with such little prompting. They passed several floors in silence, refusing to look at each other.

Finally, Prowl broke. "About my training..."

Jazz tensed, then sighed. "We'll meet in a few orns. There's no point in putting it off now that Ah'm back."

Prowl settled back, satisfied with the answer.

They were nearly to their stop.

"Are ya going ta the debriefing?" Jazz wondered lightly.

"What debriefing?" Prowl asked, his red chevron glinting in the light as he tilted his head.

"The one Ah'm about ta call," Jazz said, smirking.

"Oh." He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then nodded. "My schedule seems to have suddenly cleared."

"How convenient," Jazz drawled.

Their optics caught, then lingered. They smirked at each other, daring and challenge alight in their clashing gazes. Anticipation for their next round of trying to one up each other rose. Remembered heat from that morning suddenly trembled through them; Jazz shifted his weight from one foot to the other, while Prowl blinked and looked away.

"We're partners," the tactician said lowly.

"Haven't forgotten," Jazz replied, his voice suspiciously dry.


	24. Chapter 24

Sometimes I wonder if Jazz and Prowl purposely make themselves hard to write, because I seriously had to rewrite this chapter three or four times just to get them to a point where I could _tolerate_ them. Blasted difficult bastards. But I love them anyways. XD Like I mentioned in another story of mine, I'm currently house-sitting for a professor of mine and internet access is limited. His computer doesn't even allow me to open documents from my USB on it. So, yeah, sparse updates whenever I get the chance... which doesn't really change the pace of this story since I only update it once every couple of weeks or so. ^^;

Major thanks to the amazing reviewers of the last chapter! Some reviewers came out who I haven't seen in a long time, so I was overjoyed to hear from them again! Love to **Patcher, Darkeyes17, Dixie, Got Buttermilk, UsagiLovesDuochan, Nightblooming Orchid, FoghornLeghorn83, femme4jack, animelover1993, renegadewriter8, CNightJoy, MoonWallker, sparklespepper, Christina, smoking caramels, Kai-Chan94, Knocks, Shinigami-Sama1, Daklog73, Sideslip, Jinx, Phoebe Turner, Nanodiode, ChaosGarden, SwedishDragon, Chikku-Chikku, A Lurker, Faecat, Shizuka Taiyou, Chloo, Peacewish, Lecidre, 1bloodtempest, RococoSpade**, and **MissyMoo**! All of you are the best~

Enjoy the chapter! ^_^

**Chapter 2****4**

_He hurt. _

_Primus, he hurt all over. _

_He could literally feel __his life draining away, bleeding out the same way his energon was. Each beat of his spark was a struggle; a throbbing, burning, reluctant pulse. A slow lethargy was creeping over him, stealing the feeling him his limbs. Heavy, cold numbness seeped into his frame, fogging his mind. The dojo, normally so bright with natural light reflecting off the copper panels in the walls, was fading to dark. Darkness that came not from lack of light, but from lack of life. _

_Jazz coughed weakly, trying to clear his vents. They were clogged with congealed energon. His energon. _

_For so long, he'd survived with the punishment. He'd fought so hard. How long had he told himself that he would figure out his master's __games? Too long had he fooled himself into thinking he was stronger. There was only so long someone could live with those dreams. Xerxia had taken him in, brought him into her dojo, given him hope for a future, and then crushed him mercilessly. Ground him into dust. His will to live, his resistance, his spirit... gone. _

_He had nothing left._

_He was broken. _

_Dying. _

_Even as his vision faded, his audios still worked. There came a thump as Xerxia hopped down from the dais, making her way toward him. Jazz could imagine how her ugly, scarred faceplate looked as she stared down at him; no expression at all. She didn't care that she had finally beaten him to death. _

_A heavy weight settled next to his numb frame. A lukewarm rush of air came over his back as his master sighed. She was just going to sit there __and wait for him to die. There would be no medic coming. No one to care for Jazz. Xerxia truly was a sparkless glitch, able to sit next to the apprentice she had kept around for... vorns? Had it really been that long? No matter, she was able to sit next to him and watch his spark fade as if it meant nothing to her._

"_Kill meh," Jazz pleaded in broken little words, possessing barely enough strength to push sound past his mouthplates. _

_Xerxia blinked and looked down at the small, slim frame that laid next her. Twisted limbs and a contorted back. A pool of energon leaking around around him like a halo. She nudged him with the back of her hand. "Say that again." _

"_Kill meh," Jazz whispered, even as energon gurgled between his mouthplates. "Ah got nothing left. Just finish meh off quick." _

_His optics had stopped working, so he failed to see the smile that spread across his master's dark faceplate. __Not of happiness or cruelty, but a crooked half-smile that was foreign to her, reflecting satisfaction and a vague sense of relief. He failed to see her optics flash in the light, burning a molten amber like twin suns on the horizon. He did not see her raise her hand, but he felt the touch on the top of his head. _

"_Finally," she sighed. "I didn't think you would ever break. You have such a strong spark."_

_Jazz could no longer summon the strength to sneer. __If he had been able to, he would have smacked her hand away. He didn't want her touching him. But there was nothing for him to do. He was a broken doll in the floor. Useless and abandoned. A puppet whose strings were cut. _

"_Ah just want it ta be over," he breathed. _

"_It is over," Xerxia murmured. "It's time to rebuild now." _

_In an act of rare kindness, she patted him on the head. A small consolation after beating him to death. She then got to her feet and left him to his fate. _

_His spark sputtered like a dying flame. Consciousness fled him. His world faded to black. _

_For the first time in a long time, Jazz felt no pain. _

* * *

Prowl cycled a deep drag of cool air through his vents in preparation for...whatever he was about to face. The doors to the training range loomed high and heavily armoured in front of him. He would be lying to himself if he said he was not feeling the least bit wary of what he might find on the other side. On the console next to the doors, a small screen announced that the holographic projectors were active within the range. Jazz was in there, waiting for him.

Could there be a more ominous situation to walk into?

Nearby, the door to a second range opened with a heavy groan. Several agents from Special Ops exited. Like most members of that division, these agents were subdued despite their heaving vents and grimacing faceplates. Their paint was dark and their optics were haunted. Special Ops was among one of the unique divisions where the bots available on any one base rotated constantly as the agents were sent on various missions, forcing them to move constantly. None could call a single base home. It was smart to be aware of all personnel on base, so Prowl consulted the Special Ops roster to find out who these agents were: their designations were listed as Enigma, Shadow Striker, and Mystère

Blackhawk wandered out last, rolling his shoulders. When he caught sight of Prowl, he immediately made his way over. "You could have just asked their designations," he said, nodding to the retreating agents.

"I wasn't interested in socializing," Prowl replied simply.

"Neither are they," Blackhawk said dryly. He nodded to the active range Prowl was loitering in front of. "I take it you're getting back to your..." he paused, arching both optic ridges, "_training_?"

"Need you say it as if it were something scandalous?" Prowl asked flatly.

A ghost of a smile haunted the edges of the saboteur's mouthplates. "My apologies."

Prowl narrowed his gaze. "Sarcasm is unbecoming of you."

"Strange, because it is oddly becoming of you." He inclined his head, keeping that almost-smile. "I should be heading after my bots. I'll let you get to that training- wouldn't want you to be late."

"No, of course not," Prowl drawled with a definitely sarcastic lilt.

Blackhawk smirked.

Not interested in being the subject of the saboteur's shrewd scrutiny, Prowl narrowed his gaze on him. "Shouldn't you be going?"

"In a moment. I still have a question I've been meaning to ask."

"Ask, then," Prowl prompted curtly.

Blackhawk cast his gaze around the open area they were in, careful to note with there was anyone near to eavesdrop. When he decided the coast was clear, he leaned in and asked, "Have you spoken with Jazz about what he said in the debriefing?"

The tactician grimaced. "I've tried."

Several orns had passed since Jazz had summoned Iacon's entire compliment of commanders to the conference room to brief them on the matters that had transpired in the borderlands. What he had to say had not gone over well with a number of bots. How could a bot that dangerous exist without them knowing about him? When Jazz had been a Decepticon, they had been perfectly aware of how dangerous he was even though he left so few alive to report about him. Of Shockwave, there was not even a whisper in the ranks of Special Ops or Intelligence & Espionage. And now when others came to question him on the matter, perhaps make him reconsider the demands he had made of the Autobots, Jazz turned stubborn. Shockwave was unequivocally his to deal with.

"I've tried to speak with him as well, as have several others," Black sighed. "I had hoped you would have better luck."

"Unfortunately, that is not the case. He changes the subject every time I try to bring it up," Prowl replied. Sometimes it was a benign change, such as a verbal detour. The last time Prowl had tried to bring up the notion of Jazz going after Shockwave _alone_, the saboteur's patience had run out. He had punched Prowl in the faceplate and walked out of the room.

Blackhawk shook his head. "If this Shockwave creature is as dangerous as Jazz says he is, Jazz could end up dead. Or worse."

Prowl shuttered his optics for a moment. "That is not a possibility I want to consider. I've invested too much work in his rehabilitation."

"We've all invested a lot in keeping Jazz around, perhaps a little bit more than some of us care to admit," said the dark mech, his gaze lingering on Prowl a moment too long. "Be damned what anyone says about him, Jazz is a good bot to have on our side. I don't want to give up a good potential agent for my division."

"I don't intend to let him do this by himself," Prowl said firmly. "Whether he likes it or not, I am his partner. If he wishes to find out what Megatron has ordered Shockwave to do, he will do it with my assistance."

"Is Jazz aware of this?"

"He knows I won't give up without a fight."

Blackhawk smirked. "I feel sorry for Shockwave, then. You two make one formidable team."

"I know." It was not to gloat, but a statement of fact. Their combined abilities made them the perfect team. If Jazz would simply have to get it through his thick head that, tactically speaking, the two of them were stronger together than apart, things would be so much simpler.

"Well, in that case, I'll leave you to him," Blackhawk said, offering a salute. "Do try to enjoy your training."

"Sarcasm is still unbecoming of you."

The Special Ops commander merely laughed as he sauntered away.

It was useless to put off the inevitable, so Prowl took one last cycle of air through his vents before approaching his impending fate. The doors groaned open, bright light blinding him for a moment. His optics adjusted, surprising him with the vision on the other side. Instead of the familiar dojo Jazz insisted on holding their sessions in, a whole city stretched out to the horizon. He stepped into the training range, feeling the electric buzz of the holographic projectors. His footsteps clicked crisply across the roof of the building he found himself standing atop of.

Jazz stood at the far end of the roof, leaning over the railing. It was high noon in the holographic city, with the light of the distant sun shining down brightly on the mech's silver armour, setting him to shine.

"You're late," said the saboteur without looking back. "It's not like ya ta be late."

"I was waylaid. I did not think you would mind," Prowl replied, making his way to Jazz's side to brace his weight against the railing and look out over the city. "I thought we were going to be training."

"We are. Ah was just taking a moment- figured ya wouldn't mind," Jazz said lightly, glancing over at his company to tilt him a half-smile.

Prowl canted his head, noting that "taking a moment" was oddly sentimental for someone like Jazz. Jazz, by nature, was not sentimental in the least. The only time when he did break from his normal behavioural patterns was when something from his past with his old master came up. Going with that notion, Prowl made the appropriate connection that the city must have something to do with Jazz's past. The abundance of metal and lack of organic material meant it was a Cybertronian city, but the architecture lacked the usual visual cues to reveal which territory they were in. A distinct lack of recognizable monuments also served to confound the tactician.

"Tyger Pax," Jazz intoned suddenly.

Prowl blinked away from his examination. "Pardon?"

Jazz laughed quietly. "Tyger Pax- that's where we are right now. In the spark of the capitol."

Prowl drew back, scrutinizing the vision around him again. "I've seen pictures of Tyger Pax. This does not look like it." The typical pictures of Tyger Pax were usually full of colour and boisterous activity; the buildings were gaudy with paintings, flashing lights hanging from every corner. Neon lights and a wild party scene were the two things the territory had been best known for during the Golden Age.

"This is before the place got all crowded with the mainstream slag," Jazz said, and then pointed to a thin half-finished spire jutting above many of the skyscrapers around it. "See? There's the Paxian Cultural Tower, before it was finished. This is how Ah remember Tyger Pax."

"Your memory is impeccable," Prowl commented quietly. The crispness of the design of the city was stunning, to say the least. Much like the recreation of the dojo, the details invested in the image were extraordinary. The holographic projectors did a good job of creating the illusion of depth, height, and distance.

Jazz laughed a brief, harsh noise.

Prowl ignored the noise. Instead, he asked, "Is this where you're from?"

Jazz shook his head. "This is where Ah trained."

"In the territory where circuit-su was invented? How appropriate." Prowl arched an optic ridge, his interest piqued. Whenever he was given the slightest detail of Jazz's past, directly or inadvertently given, it never ceased to make the enigma that was Jazz all the more fascinating.

"Is there any place better?" Jazz smirked, but it was a hollow sound. The haunted look he sometimes wore whenever he thought of his past briefly flashed across his faceplate. Emotions there that most bots probably assumed Jazz was incapable of feeling; disgust, fear, rage, hatred, and pain. So much pain. But unlike Prowl, Jazz was already the master of himself, and like all the previous moments when faced with his past, he dragged in a breath of air and sighed everything out until the usual façade of himself returned. After regaining his composure, he leaned a little farther over the railing of the holographic the building and said absently, "Ah think Ah like this place better the way it looks now."

"I agree- it looks much more efficient without the lights and mess," Prowl agreed.

Jazz snorted, shaking his head. "Didn't mean it like that. Ah meant Ah like the way it is _now_ in the present. Burned ta the ground and nothing but ashes."

Prowl couldn't say he was surprised to hear such a graphic comment, but the vehemency that laced the words was more than Jazz usually invested. With his curiosity piqued, he asked, "If you hate this place so much, why do you constantly come back?"

Feigning ignorance, Jazz cocked a sharp smirk. "What makes ya think Ah hate this place special?"

Prowl sent the silver mech an arched look. "I am trained to see details, Jazz. I know you too well for you to hide as well as you think you do."

Jazz's smirk disappeared.

"Whatever happened to you here..." Prowl murmured.

The saboteur's feigned innocence dropped instantly, replaced by a dark threat. "Don't go there, Prowler."

"You said it yourself when we started these sessions; this place made you what you were. You were driven _insane_," Prowl said, continuing as if unafraid of the threat the saboteur represented. "What I can't fathom is why you insist on coming back. Why train in a facsimile of the dojo you were tortured in? Why create a hologram of a city you have every reason to hate?"

"_Prowl..."_ Nothing but a dark growl.

His hand moved, grasping Jazz's. "What possesses you to come back to a place that haunts you?"

Jazz jerked away. "Ya don't wanna know."

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know," Prowl replied honestly, his hand grasping Jazz's a fraction tighter.

Silence permeated the air between them, matched by a dangerous tension. Yet again, they were caught in a staring contest, the strength of their wills clashing. Prowl had no intention of backing down. After several tense breems, the saboteur reluctantly relented. He understood that Prowl, of all bots, knew how to keep a secret, and he was among the few that Jazz..._trusted_ enough to speak to.

Prowl could sense the moment he won, not that he considered it a gloating matter. He was honoured to know that Jazz was willing to relent. He felt the tension sag out of the saboteur's frame. When he turned to meet Prowl's gaze, Jazz's visor dimmed.

"The reason Ah come here is because there's no where else Ah can go."

Prowl frowned a little. "I don't understand."

"Of course ya don't," murmured the saboteur. "Everything Ah've ever done, it's just colours and sounds and a few brief pictures. Mah life is literally a blur." He looked down at his clawed hands. "Skills Ah remember just fine, but Ah don't remember faceplates Ah've met and places Ah've been. It's like it all never existed."

"But here?" Prowl gestured to the hologram of Tyger Pax.

The light of Jazz's visor dimmed further. "Ah remember every detail. Ah come back because its the only place Ah know- the only place that has ever been _real_ ta meh."

Prowl was quiet for a moment, uncomfortable with the strange feeling churning in his chest. "Is it memory damage of some kind?"

"Maybe, but Ah'm more inclined ta think that what Xerxia did ta me..." He was quiet for a moment, hands clenching into fists. "After Ah left this place, Ah was _bad_, Prowl. Ah know Ah hurt bots, a lot of them... Don't remember no faceplates, but sometimes Ah think Ah can hear them screaming." He sighed. "Ah guess Ah was too... _wild_ ta let anything sink in."

Even if it was not a medical condition Prowl had ever heard of before, he accepted the condition. It made sense, for the most part. The change between who Jazz had been and who he was now... it was as if he was a completely different bot. Of its own volition, his hand moved to lay atop of Jazz's as he asked, "What changed?"

"Everything," Jazz breathed, staring at the spot where their hands touched.

Prowl revved quietly. "Do you feel remorse for the things you've done?"

"Maybe... Ah don't know." He shrugged, turning his back on the railing in order to lean against it. The exit out of the training range had disappeared, the wall incorporated into the illusion to create an uninterrupted view of Tyger Pax. Bracing his hands against the railing biting into his back, he arched backward, tilting his head to the sky. "Ah know that Ah'm starting ta hate when bad things happen ta good bots."

"All the more reason to let me help you find Shockwave," Prowl intoned. "It's not something you can do by yourself."

The saboteur's glare was hot enough to melt steel. "Shockwave is mine."

Prowl came away from the railing, his mouthplates pursed. "If he is as dangerous as you say, then you cannot do this alone."

"Shows what ya know." Jazz snorted, pushing away.

Prowl's hand shot out, grabbing Jazz around the wrist. "I won't let you do this alone."

Jazz went rigid. "Take your hand off meh."

"Listen to what I have to say and I will release you," Prowl said, tightening his grip. "Shockwave is dangerous- you will need what resources the Autobots have to capture him. You will need more than just yourself to do this."

"Ah've told ya _no_. Shockwave is mine ta deal with."

"_Why_ is he yours?"

"Ya wouldn't understand. Just drop it," the saboteur growled darkly, trying to jerk away.

Prowl's grip remained tight. "I will not. You have avoided this for orns now. I want answers, Jazz."

Jazz snarled, the whiteness of his optics flashing red. "Shockwave is _meh_, Prowler. He's what Ah was. Ah need ta know that Ah can catch him. Ah need ta know that Ah'm better!"

"This isn't a game, Jazz! What if he catches you and you end up as his latest experiment?"

"Ah won't!"

"I'm not willing to take that chance!" He jerked Jazz's arm, bringing them flush together. Prowl used his greater height to glare down into the silver bot's defiant gaze. Frustration was starting to take a turn for the worse. The edges of his concentration fraying. "I am your partner, Jazz! I can help you!"

Too quick to counter, Jazz snarled and shoved Prowl to the ground. Suddenly, he was on top of the tactician, one hand magnetically adhering both of Prowl's hands to the ground above his head. Jazz's free hand came around Prowl's neck, squeezing.

"Don't give meh that _partners_ slag, because all ya really feel is an overblown sense of duty because you're nothing but an EMO!" the saboteur spat viciously. "How the pit do ya think ya can help meh catch a mech more dangerous than Ah've ever been when ya can't even control yourself?"

"Why else do you think I am here!" Prowl shouted roughly, the words strained by Jazz's grip on his neck. Jazz squeezed harder, snapping Prowl's temper. He twisted until he could lift a leg and wrap it around Jazz's neck, struggling to tear the saboteur away. His legs happened to be stronger than Jazz's arms; the saboteur's back hit the ground with a satisfying clank of metal against metal. Jazz's own legs flew out, one of his feet landing a nasty swipe across Prowl's chin. They tangled like that for several moments before Prowl managed to break away, leaping to pin Jazz.

With their faceplates barely a breath away from each other, he shouted, "I am _trying_ to better myself! You are not making it easy!"

"Ah never said it was gonna be easy," Jazz snarled. "If ya can't figure _this_ out, ya ain't ready ta go after someone like Shockwave. You'll get yourself killed."

"And you won't? You're not infallible, Jazz!"

"Infallible this!" His forehead smashed into Prowl's olfactory sensor, stars erupting in the tactician's vision. The world whirled as their frames tangled again, rolling, grappling. Energon dribbled down Prowl's faceplate. Shock was painfully evident on the mech's faceplate.

"Didn't calculate that, did ya?" Jazz sneered. He unlocked the clips holding his visor in place. As Prowl's fist came down on his face, it jerked the crystalline piece free. He only had a few spares and he wasn't about to let one get ruined in a stupid scuffle. Their confrontation degenerated further as tempers flared hotter. Prowl landed another heavy punch to the side of Jazz's faceplate, gouging the metal with his knuckles. Jazz ripped into Prowl's back, tearing at the tension wires holding his doorwings. Another headbutt cracked the tactician's chevron. A quick knee rammed into someone's abdomen, denting the armour. A vicious punch shattered the covering on the lights of the other's frame.

Jazz raked his claws down Prowl's faceplate.

Prowl gripped Jazz's horns, smashing the saboteur's head into the ground.

Energon flung everywhere in the heat of their fight. The ground became riddled with the glowing globs. Their frames became smeared with it, making them slick against each other. They continued to roll, still punching, clawing, grappling, and kicking. No holds barred. Writhing like animals on the ground, primal as they sunk to their basest urges. It was the release Jazz needed to get rid of all the excess thoughts and feelings that had been building up over the last few orns. For Prowl, he let himself be swept up in the thrill of fighting without calculation; the mindless violence was a powerful escape from the cold rigidness he usually struggled to maintain.

Both took a bizarre form of pleasure in the fight even as they lost themselves in the heat of their rage.

"Ah don't want your help!" Jazz snarled, dislocating one of Prowl's doorwings.

Prowl howled, bucking the mech off. He whirled, elbowing Jazz in the neck. "You are going to _need_ it!"

They collided again like forces of nature. The sound of their frames smacking together was akin to thunder cracking across the sky. Like two wild battering rams, they collided with the railing around the building, made stupid in their clashing fury. The holographic metal bent and twisted; it pixelated, and then shattered. Their momentum sent them over the edge. While the world rushed around them, they continued to grapple. The fall was as much an illusion as the city was. As they rolled through what looked like mid-air, they could feel the solid ground beneath them.

The hologram stopped moving around them. They were now in the middle of a freeway suspended in the middle of the city. All around them, spires and skyscrapers rose around them like claws reaching for the sky. There was no sound in the illusion aside from the sound of their metal frames crashing against each other.

Jazz finally managed to get the upper hand, twisting Prowl onto his back.

"Release me!" Prowl demanded, bucking and writhing as hard as he could, unable to dislodge the saboteur. He could only imagine what his expression looked like; was it as wild as Jazz's? Did he have fire blazing behind the lenses of his optics? It felt as if he were burning from the inside out, heat from his pounding spark spreading to every fibre of his frame. He could hardly think beyond the inferno of fury inside him. It was like being released into the spark of a storm.

Jazz raised a single hand, poised to strike.

"Go ahead! Do it!" Prowl spat. "Hit me!"

Surprisingly, the demand made Jazz falter.

Prowl wrenched himself to the side, managing to throw the saboteur away. He forced himself to his feet, his vents heaving, his frame vibrating with the excess of everything he was feeling. Instead of lunging, he spread his arms wide. "It's what you want, isn't it? You're only going to beat the slag out of me anyways, so let me make it easy for it- _hit me!_"

Jazz remained on the ground, gaping at the storm-grey mech looming over him.

Not getting the reaction he wanted, Prowl bristling. "What's the matter? I won't fight back! Do whatever the pit you want!"

The blaze of white fire in the saboteur's optics simmered down. Tension drained from him. Suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed. Not a cruel laugh, but his true laugh- the rich, deep sound that vibrated across armour like a physical caress.

Surprised by the randomness of the reaction, Prowl's mind reeled to understand it. A primal part of himself tried to hold on to the fury that still burned inside him, but the sudden flood of a thousand other emotions drowned that singular one. Now shame, embarrassment, humiliation, and regret gripped him. Such behaviour he'd just demonstrated was completely unbecoming of a commander!

He cast his gaze around as the world came back into focus. Reluctantly, he dragged his optics back to Jazz, who continued to sit in the middle of the holographic highway and laugh. This only served to increase Prowl's already horrible feeling of dread.

"It's... not that funny," he mumbled. "I was in the heat of the moment."

Jazz shook his head, gaining control of his raucous mirth. "Nah, it's not that. Ah'm not laughing at ya... Okay, Ah'm kind of laughing at ya, but not really."

Prowl blinked, chagrined to have yet another negative emotion added to the mix: _confusion_.

The silver mech popped to his feet, shaking out his many dents and oozing wounds. "Wow, that was exactly what Ah needed."

"A laugh?"

"A fight."

Prowl pursed his mouthplates in irritation. "I'm glad I could be so accommodating. Do you mind explain why you were laughing at me."

Jazz wrenched a couple pieces of askew armour back into place. "Ya figured it out."

"Figured what out?"

Jazz arched both optic ridges, looking at him like he was stupid.

Not appreciating the look at all, Prowl immediately analyzed the last moments of their fight. He called rolling around, punching and kicking each other, and then he was on his feet, demanding for Jazz to hit him. He gasped in outrage. "_That_ was the purpose of the initiation! You _wanted_ me to want you to hurt me?"

Jazz stooped for his visor, brushing it off and clicking it back into place. "Yep."

"You...! You _horrible..._! _Wretched_! That's absolutely _sadistic_!" He nearly blinded himself with his own outrage.

"Masochistic in your case, since you're the one who has to want it," Jazz replied nonchalantly, as if he had not just been boiling in his own rage. He made his way over to Prowl, a hand outstretched.

Prowl jumped away, too angry to let the saboteur touch him. In fact, he was quickly degenerating back into a place where he wanted to hit the silver mech again. Smack him around a little. All of those wretched beatings, all the orns spent recovering in the med bay, countless joors spent fruitlessly pondering the mystery of the initiation-! No matter how illogical the urge was, Prowl wanted to desperately plant his fist in the middle of Jazz's smirking faceplate in revenge.

"Go ahead, try ta lay one on meh," the silver mech taunted, able to see the burning desire in Prowl's optics.

Prowl moved forward, only to freeze. Logic won out. His fist dropped, his optics cast to the side. "We are in no condition to start another fight."

"Always the logical one," Jazz murmured wryly, easily stepping around Prowl to press his hand to the middle of the tactician's back. A gentle magnetic pulse radiated through him. He groaned and leaned back as the twisted tension wires in his doorwings were soothed. "A little pressure," the saboteur warned before he took hold of Prowl's dislocated wing and jerked it back into place. A brief burst of pain shot through him until another magnetic pulse soothed it away.

With a careful flap of his wings, testing the reset joints, Prowl turned to face Jazz with a frown. "I still don't understand, Jazz. Why go through all of this? You knew from the start that I wanted this training."

"It doesn't work that way," Jazz sighed and shook his head. "It's not just about wanting the training. Ya have ta be willing ta let meh do whatever Ah need ta- not just physical, but other stuff. Worse stuff than just punching ya in the faceplate. So long as ya fought meh, ya weren't ready ta let meh do the hard stuff. Ah had ta wait until ya were broken, in a way."

Now Prowl scowled deeply. "The moment I was willing to let you hit me-?"

"Ah knew ya were ready."

"That's horrible."

"Trust meh, ya got off easy." He nodded toward the exit. "Come on, we're done here. We might as well go see Ratchet and face the abuse now rather than let him hunt us down."

Prowl grimaced, limping after the silver bot. "Does this mean you will allow me to help you with hunting Shockwave?"

"Don't count on it," Jazz snorted.

Together, they limped into the hall.

Prowl glanced over to his company, pursing his mouthplates. "I do have one more question..."

Jazz shot him an arched look. "Yeah?"

He paused, cycling air through is vents before asking, "You are not the type of bot to bow to anyone. How did you figure out your initiation when it calls for such severe surrender?"

"Ah that. You're right- Ah'm not the type of bot ta bow ta anyone," Jazz said, offered a bitter smile.

"Then how...?"

"She took meh ta mah limit. Broke meh down 'till there was nothing left. In the end, Ah gave her the ultimate surrender," Jazz sighed. "Ah died."


	25. Chapter 25

I love this chapter and I make no apologies for that love. Most times, Prowl and Jazz are jerks who never want to cooperate with me, but this time... I don't know, it was like _magic_. Maybe it's just me, but every time I read back through, I love the intimacy they share. Hopefully you all will enjoy the chapter, too. ^_^

Major thanks to the reviewers of the last chapter: **Optimus Bob, phoebe turner, sparklespepper, femme4jack, Got Buttermilk, Psyche102, Nanodiode, Peacewish, CNightJoy, Patcher, Darkeyes17, renegadewriter8, Daklog73, Nightblooming Orchid, Anon, Kai-Chan94, Pruhana, Christina, Sideslip, kathy3meme, sesamestreetFTW, SwedishDragon, MoonWallker, Faecat, Midnight Marquis, RococoSpade, A Lurker, ChaosGarden, Marsh Queen, UsagiLovesDuochan, xdragonslayerx, sara, Lecidre**, and **chaitea16**. There are no words to convey how deeply grateful I am that you all took the time to write a review for this story. Thank you so much~!

Also, this is dedicated to **Chloo,** who did that awesome thing she does by leaving really awesome reviews and being interested in the whole _War Eternal_ series and all that cool stuff that makes me feel like I'm doing something worth while. So... yeah... Hi **Chloo**, this chapter is for you! 8D

**Chapter 25**

It was the middle of the night when Jazz heard someone at his door.

The moment the noise began, the saboteur was online and ready to defend himself. He had long ago installed a rapid reboot program of his own design for these kinds of occasions; whether he was knocked unconscious in battle or being attacked in recharge, the program could shoot him into consciousness much faster than the regular option if there was possible danger lurking. Despite the drain that it caused on his systems, it came in handy for the times when someone was trying to kill him.

He waited a moment in silence, glaring at his darkened door. With his audios trained, he could hear the distinct sounds of someone trying to break the lock. A light clicking of the keys and the low buzz as each attempt was denied. It was a secure lock, but Jazz did not put all his faith in his skills to lock a door. He knew he was good, but if there was someone brave enough to try something so stupid, then they must have a _very_ good reason. Either an assassination attempt was coming, or Mirage's patience had finally broken and he was coming to reclaim is stolen property.

In either case, Jazz had every intention of putting up a fight.

Shifting position, he brought himself into a ready crouch, blade coming to bear.

Through the door, a low buzz announced yet another denied access. This was followed by a soft curse, so quiet that Jazz nearly missed it. Much to his amusement, he recognized the voice.

"So that's how it's going ta be," chuckled the saboteur, tension draining from his frame. He hopped down from his berth and quickly disassembled the traps he had set up in the event that someone did happened to crack the lock. By the time he set aside the acid pellets, the bot on the other side finally championed over the locking sequence. The door slid open, revealing the silhouette of a familiar mech, his red chevrons glinting in the light.

Jazz leaned against the near wall, crossing his arms over his chest and arching an optic ridge. "This is unexpected."

"Did I wake you?" Prowl asked evenly. As usual, he managed to look indifferent, even in such an unusual circumstance.

"Yes." Jazz looked the interloper up and down, revealing his amusement through a humoured smile. "Come ta ravish meh while Ah recharge?"

"Not tonight," Prowl replied, either failing to pick up on the humour or ignoring it.

"Tomorrow night, then? Ah'll come ta ya instead- Ah can get into your room faster," Jazz chuckled.

"Another time, perhaps," the tactician said softly, obviously distracted. He leaned out of the doorway to glance up and down the hall. The only thing online at the moment was Tungsten the drone, who scurried down the hall with its tiny arms full of cleaning supplies as it made a beeline for Wheeljack's labs.

Jazz canted his head, frowning. "Has something happened?"

A pause, then: "No."

To the untrained optic, Prowl would have looked his usual self. Detached and disinterested. Jazz didn't miss a detail, though. He saw the certain flick of the bot's doorwings, the shift of weight from one foot to the other. Prowl continued to glance out the door, making sure the hallway remained empty. It was an excess gesture, since the graveyard shift called for the bare minimum of personnel on duty; none would be down so deep in Iacon. Not to mention the dead giveaway that he was down here in the first place. Usually, a bot had a good reason for travelling across half the base in the middle of the night to break the lock on another bot's door to wake him up.

Since Jazz had yet to perfect the art of mind reading, he was forced to ask, "Ah give up. Why are ya here?"

"Come with me," Prowl said, nodding toward the hall.

Jazz pursed his mouthplates, glancing back to his berth. "Can't it wait? Ah was kind of busy recharging."

"Consider this repayment for all the times you broke into my room while I recharged," said the tactician.

"How very mature of ya," Jazz scoffed.

"Come with me, Jazz." He extended a hand in invitation. "At the very least, I promise there will be high grade involved."

"High grade?" Jazz considered the hand offered, now intrigued by the sweetened deal.

Prowl pursed his mouthplates a little. "Not Sideswipe's stuff, but it's still good."

"Ya know just how ta tempt meh," Jazz chuckled, but still wary of what this summons might be about. However, his curiosity overrode his sense of suspicion in this case. Prowl never meant outright harm on purpose unless in battle. Whatever had prompted the tactician to come to him in the middle of the night, Jazz wished to find out. "Alright, fine, lead the way."

A brief smile quirked the edges of Prowl's mouthplates before he slipped back into the hall. Jazz followed, sparing a moment to reinstate the lock on his door. No sense in taking any chances that Mirage might come along for his property while Jazz was away. Where would the fun be if he made it easy on the spy? Prowl watched him for several moments while he took the time to relock the door, then looked away when Jazz tried to meet his gaze. Things like that were happening more often than not over the last couple of orns. Ever since Prowl had graduated from the initiation phase of the training. The avoidance was starting to get annoying.

Jogging in order to catch up and match pace with the tactician, Jazz nudged him with his elbow. "Something's bothering ya."

"Yes."

"Rumours again?"

With Sideswipe freed from the brig, the benign nature of the rumours circulating Iacon had taken a turn for the scandalous yet again. How the red melee warrior managed to come up with such creative, albeit preposterous, stories, it was a mystery. And to do so on top of maintaining his normal work ethic and extra activities (mainly being the illicit production of potent high grade), it was a testament to Sideswipe's impeccable time management skills. If only he would use his powers for good instead of mischief.

"No, not those. They're easy enough to ignore," Prowl assured, though his tone was a bit curt.

Jazz shrugged and went back to pondering the mystery, following diligently at Prowl's side while the tactician selected a path through Iacon's quiet halls. They did not head toward the busier center of the base. Instead, they kept to the outskirts. Their path continued to be unfettered by other Autobots. Only the occasional drone passed them. Jazz slid a sidelong glance toward his company, then furrowed his brow in sudden concern.

"Did you lose one of your bots?" he asked quietly. He still vividly remembered the botched mission Prowl had been on in Polyhex. Two of his team dead, the rest injured. The memory remained vivid with Jazz because it had been the first time he had witnessed what emotional backlashes did to Prowl. In the back of his mind, he was still haunted by the knowledge of what it was like to be inside the tactician's mind and feel the kinds of things he felt. Any time Prowl lost someone, he killed himself on the inside with a self-hatred that rivalled Jazz's sense of self-worth.

"Not this time."

"Aren't you a mech of mystery tonight," Jazz said lightly.

Prowl glanced down at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Come on, we're almost there."

The corridor they came into was lined with nothing but store rooms. Some were built like locker spaces, each Autobot possessing a single designated locker where they could store any extra personal items that did not fit in their quarters or on their person. There were labelled store rooms for sheets of metal bound to be shaped into armour, and store rooms for medical supplies. There was also the occasional junk room with warning signs posted on the doors, Wheeljack's many experiments stored on the other side.

Jazz paused, knowing exactly where he was being taken. "Ah didn't know ya knew about this place."

"I've known for a while," Prowl replied, heading for the correct door which was labelled _Out of Order_. The sign never deterred the bots who were determined to enter.

"And ya never thought ta shut it down? Ah'd imagine something like this would go against all kinds of regulations," Jazz said, rapping his knuckles against the door lightly.

"I considered it, but was advised against it by Elita One," Prowl said. "She expressed that having a quiet place to find solace in was good for morale. She was corroborated by Optimus Prime. I can do nothing when this place has the approval of the Prime." The tactician canted his head, considering something. "The illicitness of the location aside, it is a quiet place to speak in private." He entered a code into the panel in the wall, admitting both of them into the room.

What had once been an empty store room was slowly turning into something more. Since the last time Jazz had come to this place, someone had brought in a couple of chairs and tables. There were no windows in the room, and the lights that hung overhead were dim. Cubes of energon of different hues and shades of brightness cast a soft glow on whatever sat near enough to them. The quiet atmosphere of the place made it perfect for someone to come to in order to escape the harsh realities of war. Somewhere in the room, the hissing sound of a gas leak could be heard, casting a nebulous haze over everything, hence the tentative name bots were starting to give the place: Nebula One.

Prowl entered first, leading the way to a chosen table with a pair of chairs that did not rock back and forth as badly as the others. Jazz came after him and chose his seat when he was invited to do so, choosing the one that faced the exit so he could keep an optic on who might come or go. Prowl nodded to the saboteur's choice, taking his own seat before withdrawing from subspace two cubes of high grade. He set the cubes on the table between them.

"Ever been here before?" Jazz wondered, taking his cube and leaning back in his seat.

"No. I knew of it, but never came- there was never any reason." Prowl cracked the seal on his cube and took a small taste. "I assume you've been here, yes?"

Jazz offered a smirk. "A couple of times." Drinking until dawn with the twins made for some interesting times. He took a swig from his own cube, surprised to find the liquid was neither a diluted brand or Sideswipe volatile brew. Having had his fair share of energon from around the planet, he had a mind to call the high grade a Simfurite brand, which tended to have a straightforward, crisp taste. He tilted his cube up in a vague toast. "Good stuff."

"Thank you," Prowl said quietly. "Smokescreen has been keeping a stash of different things from Simfur. I traded him for the cubes."

"So ya brought meh here ta drink?" He knew that wasn't the reason, but it was a good way to get Prowl talking.

Hesitation, and then: "No, it was simply a good incentive to get you here."

Jazz offered a nod. "Ya got meh here. Now what are ya going ta do about it?"

Prowl contemplated the cube in his hands, turning it around slowly. His gaze was more distant instead of detached, his mind working faster than any other Jazz had ever encountered, bar himself. "I have been thinking extensively over what you said to me several orns ago..."

Jazz sighed. "If this is about Shockwave again-."

"Not this time," Prowl assured firmly. "I am not about to let that subject drop, but tonight was not for Shockwave. What you said about your training the other orn, what happened to you in order to pass your initiation..."

"Oh, _that_."

"It haunts me."

"Still haunts meh too," Jazz admitted, taking a long draught from his cube. "It's one of those things Ah don't think Ah can ever forget." The familiar sick feeling that came whenever he thought of those orns churned in his tanks, tightening a vice around his spark. He took refuge behind his visor, hiding whatever ghosts might be lingering in his gaze. "Ya brought meh all the way out here just ta tell meh that?"

"No, I wanted to talk about it, if you were acquiescent to the idea," Prowl murmured. "I realize that this is quite sudden, and to be dragged out of recharge will certainly win no merit for my own tact in the matter, but I _had_ to speak with you about it-."

"You're rambling."

Prowl immediately ceased speaking. He dragged in cool air, then let his gaze fall. "My apologies."

"Whatever." Jazz scowled, immediately wanting to get up and walk away. His past was not something he liked to think about often, let alone _talk_ about it with someone. No one had ever given a damn before, so there had never been any need to even consider the thought of sharing. But Prowl... _cared_. Concern shone undisguised in the tactician's optics. There was nothing malicious about him. He was not plotting to use the information for his own gain. It was not an overblown sense of duty stemming from his EMO syndrome, either. It was simply Prowl being Prowl, and Jazz was okay with that. The scowl that marred his faceplate lessened fraction by fraction until it was just a resigned expression.

The tactician's doorwings dropped a fraction. "I understand if you're uncomfortable. I shouldn't have acted so impulsively." He started to rise from his seat.

"Sit, Prowl," Jazz sighed.

Prowl resumed his seat cautiously.

"Ya went ta all this trouble ta get the high grade and drag meh out here, so we'll talk," he sighed, but then pointed a sharp finger across the table. "But Ah ain't gonna be the only one sharing. You'll be doing some talking as well."

"I am fine with that," Prowl said, sitting up a little straighter.

Jazz took another draught from his cube. It was quiet in the room. The only sounds were the chink of their metal as they moved and the monotone hiss of the gas leak hidden somewhere in the room. It was a subdued feeling to be sitting alone with Prowl. The world wasn't spinning so fast anymore. The room wasn't a blur as it might have been at one time. Jazz tilted his cube away from his mouthplates to peer over the rim, watching the mech he was with. Prowl matched his gaze for a moment before looking away again.

"You _died_, Jazz."

"Who Ah used ta be died," Jazz replied quietly. "There's a difference."

"But still..."

He looked away, touching his visor like an afterthought. "Who Ah was wasn't what mah master wanted, Prowl. Ah was just the raw material. She needed ta break meh down so that she could rebuild." The words left a bitter taste in his mouthplates, which he washed down with high grade.

"I can't imagine what it must have been like," Prowl said, shaking his head.

"It was hard." He watched his company, noting how openly regretful Prowl's expression was. It was as if he blamed himself for Jazz's own miseries. As if there might have been something for him to do to spare Jazz the reality of his past. A clawed hand reached out, entwining his fingers with Prowl's. "It was a long time ago, though. It's over. This is who Ah am now- Ah've made mah peace with that."

Prowl nodded, blinking away the negative emotions that darkened his gaze. He squeezed Jazz's hand before unravelling their fingers. "Why didn't she just reprogram you? It would have been so much simpler."

"Reprogramming would have been cheating," Jazz snorted. "What lesson would Ah have learned if she had done everything for meh?"

A grimace passed over the tactician. "How long did it take for you...?"

"Ta break?" Jazz shuddered, the sick feeling in his tanks churning a little worse. "Don't know... a while, Ah guess. Never really kept track, ya know? Just trying ta survive was hard enough. Ah came ta her as a youngling, and by the end of it, Ah had my first... no, Ah think it was mah second adult frame."

Prowl's optics flashed, his gaze shooting up. "You were a youngling?"

Jazz quirked an optic ridge. "We all gotta start somewhere."

The tactician revved quietly. "Yes, of course, I meant... I had always assumed that you had been a pre-program. It's difficult to imagine you as an innocent youngling."

Brief, mirthless laughter escaped him. "Ah might have been a youngling, but Ah've never been _innocent_."

Prowl was quiet for a while, probably at war with his old Security Response programming. Younglings were once a closely protected resource on Cybertron; the laws surrounding them had been strict and severe. The penalties for purposely bringing a youngling to harm were high. Because of the war, the Allspark was now sequestered in a private location to be guarded against the Decepticons- it was no longer used to bring younglings into the world, but that did not stop old programming from arising at the prospect of an old injustice.

"How could she have gotten away with what she did?" Prowl asked, finally able to find words to express his incredulity.

"It was a long time ago, Prowl. Laws were different back then," Jazz shrugged. "Ah was brought online just as bots were starting to pick up the fashion of younglings from organic species. Not a lot of bots knew what ta do with something that didn't come already programmed with everything it needed. The Council had yet ta put in place a lot of the laws that protected younglings in the Golden Age."

Prowl's brow furrowed, a light frown pulling at his mouthplates. He urged Jazz to continue with a subtle nod of his head.

Jazz stared down into his high grade. "Mah creator... Ah don't know if he meant ta be kind or cruel when he gave meh the mind of pre-program, but stuck meh in the frame of a youngling. Ah was trapped in the Youth Sector with no one around who was mah equal. Not even the Caretakers or Guardians measured up. Ah hated every orn of mah life there." A crack appeared up the side of his cube where he clenched it too hard. Both he and Prowl startled in surprise, then Jazz cursed softly. He finished off the last dregs of his high grade before setting the cube aside.

"What happened?" Prowl asked softly.

"Ah escaped," Jazz replied, his bitterness replaced with a wicked smile. "One night, there was a Guardian with weird optics on duty... Amber optics, ya know? Ya never forget something like that."

"That is odd," Prowl replied politely. Amber was one of the few colours exempted from the spectrum of optical colours a bot could choose from. To have the colour probably meant the bot had custom optics made for him.

"Anyways, that night Ah overheard him talking in the hall with one of the Caretakers- talked in riddles, but Ah could understand him. There'd been an accident outside the compound's perimeter, knocking out the resonance scanners and making the outer locks malfunction. It was the perfect opportunity for meh ta make a run for it. Ah'd never get another chance like that."

"So you escaped?"

"The only youngling ta ever do so successfully. Ah even got the Youth Sector shut down for negligence." He couldn't help the tone of pride that came into his voice.

"What Youth Sector was that?" Prowl puzzled over which territories did not possess Youth Sectors. Crystal City was mainly a tourist territory, so had opted not to build one. Simfur refused, believing they were inefficient. And then there was...

"Kaon."

Prowl drew back, looking sincerely startled. "You're Kaonite?"

"Surprised?" Jazz snorted, tilting his chair back on two legs.

"Somewhat," Prowl admitted unsteadily. "If you're from Kaon, what about your accent? I've know bots from Kaon, but none sound like you."

"Mah accent's genuine, just really old." He shook his head. "Ya know about the Language Unification Act with Alpha Prime, right?"

Prowl nodded. "Before Alpha Prime, all territories spoke their own unique language. With the Unification, the official language of the planet was switched to Main Cybertronian. All citizens of the planet were required to download the appropriate file and abandon their territory dialects." He paused, tilting his head. "So your accent is a throwback from then?"

"Pretty much. After bots forgot what a _real_ Kaonite accent sounded like, Ah kept using mine," Jazz said. "Kaon's original language was called Kev."

"Can you still speak it?" Prowl enquired curiously.

"Ah guess. It's been a while since Ah've had the chance ta speak it." He rocked back and forth on his tilted chair. "Ah still remember bits and pieces of the other languages, too. Learned Pax in Tyger Pax. Ah can probably still order high grade and a pleasure bot in Sicon- Epsilon's language."

Betraying more interest than he intended to show, the tactician leaned forward. "Say something."

"In Sicon?"

"No, Kev."

"Now?" Jazz wondered, bringing the legs of his chair back down.

"Yes."

Jazz paused, thinking of what he might say. He cleared his vents, looked Prowl in the optic, and said, _"I have never met anyone like you before." _

Prowl canted his head. He had never had the opportunity to hear one of the original languages of Cybertron, but he found that Kev somehow suited Jazz much better than Main Cybertronian did. After puzzling for a moment, he asked- "What did you say?"

"Ah said you're ugly and ya have no sense of humour."

"For some reason, I doubt that," Prowl intoned, though he laughed a little.

"You'll never know the difference, now will ya?" Jazz teased.

Prowl shook his head. "One of these orns, I'll find a Kev file and I'll download it. Then I'll know what you said."

"Go ahead and try," Jazz challenged playfully. He knew well that coming across a file for a dead language was nearly as hard as getting Mirage to not act like a glitch. The only way Prowl would find a Kev file was if Jazz gave it to him.

Prowl drank from his cube, taking the extra time to rein in his brief excitement. "I can't believe I never figured out your accent before now."

"It wasn't something Ah expected anyone ta figure out, except maybe another Old One," Jazz replied. "The Unification Act was a long time ago. Ah don't even think Ironhide remembers what it sounds like to hear a real Kaonite accent. Chromia though...she might have guessed." He stretched back, rolling his shoulders. "When younger bots hear meh speak, they just assume Ah'm from a colony or something. Ah'm cool with keeping them guessing."

"You've certainly kept me guessing- though I can't say I'm surprised to find out that you're from _Kaon," _Prowl replied, his pale optics shining bright in the dim setting. He looked... _happy _to have learned something so intimate about Jazz. Maybe 'happy' was too strong a word. _Content_ was better. He was content to be learning something about his partner that no one else knew.

Jazz smirked. "Suits, doesn't it?"

"Indeed." He took another slow sip from his cube, then set it down. "How did you meet your master? You're from Kaon and I assume she's from Tyger Pax."

"She found meh," Jazz admitted softly. "It was kind of weird, but Ah didn't think much of it at the time. It had been a couple orns after mah escape- Ah had no credits and Ah was desperate for energon. Ah was about ta rush a merchant's cart when someone grabbed meh and hauled meh up. Ah thought Ah was gonna get mah aft handed ta me, but there she was, just staring at meh."

He shuttered his optics for a moment, remembering the moment his life changed forever. The first time he had gazed upon the faceplate of the bot who would irrevocably change him, he'd thought she was frightening and hideous. Her dark armour had been heavily scarred, making her look more like a mutilated monster than anything else. In contrast to her frightening looks, her optics had glinted like jewels and the smell that came from her was bizarrely sweet.

"_Finally," _she'd said, before paying for a cube of hydrogen-saturated energon and pushing it into his hands. _"It's time to go." _

It was innocent, that first meeting. She'd carried him around while he guzzled back the energon. They'd taken a lift together into the bowels of the city until they passed all the infrastructure and dipped into something like a natural cave beneath Kaon's sunken capitol. The walls had shone eerily with phosphorous, the shadows dancing even when the light sources did not move. Despite his growing unease, Jazz had found himself unreasonably exhausted. Being on the run for several orns, he had not recharged for an astrosecond and it was catching up with him. He had only the strength to ask his saviour her designation before he passed out.

"_I am Xerxia,"_ she whispered. _"You belong to me now." _

When Jazz had next come online, he had been in Tyger Pax in the dojo that would become his home and dungeon.

"You went with her just like that?" Prowl asked incredulously.

"Didn't have much of a choice," Jazz replied wryly.

Prowl swirled his high grade around in its cube, watching the mesmerizing movement. "If you knew then what you know now, would you have still gone with her?"

"Ah probably would," Jazz said bitterly, a humourless laugh following. "Ah can't go back ta the bot Ah used ta be. Ah wouldn't want ta be him even if Ah got the chance. All Ah got is the meh Ah am now. Being _this_-," he gestured to himself, "-is what has kept meh alive all these orns. Ah might have had the will ta live, but Xerxia gave meh the _skills_ ta keep meh alive." He was quiet for a moment, shaking his head. "Ironic, isn't it? She had ta kill meh before Ah could live."

A small clatter on the table had him looking up. A cube was set in front of him, the last mouthfuls of its glowing contents swishing in the bottom. Prowl pushed the cube a little closer.

"You need this more than I do."

Jazz offered a grateful smile before finishing the cube off. Once done, he wiped his mouthplates with the back of his hand. "Okay, that's enough sharing on mah part. Gotta leave some mysteries intact, ya know?"

Prowl opened his mouthplates to object, perhaps hoping to ask another couple questions. He quieted when Jazz arched an optic ridge in his direction. They had a deal. If Jazz spilled a little bit about himself, Prowl had to do the same. It was time to make good on the second part of the exchange.

"Alright," the tactician sighed. "What would you like to know about me?"

"Everything," Jazz replied lightly.

Prowl shook his head. "That's not an even exchange."

Jazz huffed a quiet laugh. "It was worth a shot. Since we've been talking beginnings, tell meh about yours."

"There's not much to tell," the tactician said with a shrug. "My life has not been as interesting as yours."

"Ah'll be the judge of that," Jazz assured, leaning back in his chair to get comfortable. Whether it was a boring story or not, he wanted to _know_ Prowl. What made boring, logical, reasonable Prowl the way he was?

"Where should I start?" Prowl wondered.

"Anywhere," Jazz offered, relieved to have a different subject other than his past to discuss.

The mech paused for a moment, tapping his fingertips against the tabletop. "You already know that I was brought online as one of five pre-programs for my precinct. All five of us were meant as tacticians to replace the number of officers who were transferred to different precincts, as well as several who had signed up for the Autobots."

The need for five tacticians, in addition to the ones already functioning in the precinct, might have sounded a little excessive, but Jazz was aware that Simfur's capitol had once had one of the largest tactical units on Cybertron. It was one of the things the territory was best known for- its efficiency, higher-than-average intelligence, and the extraordinary programming of its Security tacticians. They did everything from threat assessments to strategic analysis, terrorist negotiations, and every other manner of hard thinking a precinct might need including balancing the credit books. Simply knowing that Prowl was from Simfur explained so much about him, but Jazz wanted to know _more_. He wanted to know the intimate details.

"What number were you in the line-up?" he wondered lightly.

"Fourth," Prowl replied. "Smokescreen was third."

"Who were the others brought online with you?"

"The first was Kingpin, then Hunter-."

Jazz pursed his mouthplates. "Kingpin...?"

"Yes, he went Decepticon," Prowl sighed. "Hunter turned Autobot with me and Smokescreen. I believe he's stationed in either Alta Trius or Centaurie Tetrax at the moment."

Jazz nodded. "And the fifth one?"

"Evasia," Prowl intoned lightly, a ghost smile playing at the edges of his mouthplates. The paleness of his optics turned a deeper blue. He failed to hide the distant, sad fondness that crept into his expression.

"Autobot or Decepticon?" Jazz wondered, then considered the name. Evasia. It was derived from _evasion_. Avoidance. Perhaps the bot had opted for Neutrality instead?

"She died before the war began," Prowl murmured quietly.

"Oh." Jazz shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the tightness that suddenly clenched around his spark. He sought to find a different topic. "How was life in your precinct?"

"Average," Prowl replied, sitting back in his seat and shaking away the shadows from his gaze. "Entirely unextraordinary for the most part."

"Ya gotta give meh more than that," Jazz pressed.

Prowl chuckled lowly, acquiescing to the request. "The majority of the officers in my precinct were pre-programs, so most were understanding of the five of us when we arrived. We had the programming to immediately begin our functions, but social grace was not something freely given. There were more than a few incidents as we learned to interact with others. I can't count the number of times I inadvertently managed to insult someone."

Jazz chuckled lightly. "Ah can't imagine ya being any more awkward than ya already are."

A small laugh escaped Prowl. "Sadly, it's true. I was much worse back then. It's a miracle that the other officers dealt with me with as much patience as they did."

Jazz kept chuckling. "Ah almost wish Ah could have met ya back then."

"I was not as interesting back then as I am now," Prowl replied. "Besides, you probably would have killed me if we had met before this."

Jazz looked to the side, shoulders sagging. "Yeah, probably." The hiss of the gas leak filled the silence between them. He lifted a finger into the haze of whitish vapour and swirled it around, creating whirlpools in the air. The effect was hypnotic. "Ya were brought online without emotions," he murmured. "Tell meh why ya learned them."

Prowl scrubbed a hand over his faceplate. "The others became normalized relatively quickly. I, on the other hand, avoided doing such a thing for a very long time. To me, there was no point in them. They were arbitrary, uncontrollable, illogical; they made you less efficient at your function."

"Primus forbid that you be less efficient," Jazz snorted, rolling his optics.

Prowl turned his olfactory sensor up. "Not all of us can be comfortable with being disgustingly disorganized."

"It's a gift and a curse," Jazz drawled, teasing and proud of himself at the same time. He wasn't just disorganized, he was _disgustingly_ disorganized. It sounded like he needed an award for it.

Prowl made a noise of annoyance, shaking his head.

The moment Jazz got his grin under control, he made an inviting gesture with his hand. "Come on, keep going. If ya thought emotions were so stupid, why did ya learn them?"

"Curiosity," Prowl sighed. "Every orn, I saw fellow officers laughing at jokes I didn't understand. I watched bots pair up and enjoy relationships with each other. No matter the illogicality of it, they seemed to be leading more fulfilling lives than I was."

"And ya wanted a piece of that?"

"Yes." Prowl looked down at his hands. "I think learning and understanding emotions was one of the very few things I was truly horrible at." He paused, making a small noise. "I... am still horrible at it."

Jazz gave the bot a nudge with his foot beneath the table, getting Prowl to look him in the optic. He offered a half-smile. "When Ah'm done with ya, you'll be better."

Another handsome smile made its way across the tactician's mouthplates, lighting up his optics, making him look so handsome. "I'm counting on it."

Jazz smiled because he couldn't help it. "Was it Evasia who got ya ta first start trying?"

"She encouraged me, yes." He sighed lightly, still smiling a little. "She was most persistent, constantly pointing out the merits of knowing happiness, humour, joy... pleasure." He stumbled on the last word, clearing his vents. "I invested a lot of my free time into learning. It was fine at first- I actually enjoyed myself. I was able to relate to other bots; I developed personal relationships with others. I learned a joke or two, even though I don't think I ever really caught on to humour..."

"Ah've laughed at ya enough, if that counts," Jazz pointed out cheerfully.

Prowl rolled his optics. "My freedom did not last forever. Being a Security officer, I was exposed to a lot of tragic situations. I saw the worst that Cybertron had to offer."

Jazz's cheerfulness faded. "Ya started ta learn negative emotions."

"They overtook nearly everything else I knew," Prowl said. "I mourned for the bots I couldn't save. I was angry with the criminals who hurt others indiscriminately; I was tormented that I couldn't do more. It was a downward spiral until I learned to hate- hating the stupidity and ignorance around me." He frowned solemnly at the table, lost in the memories. "Soon enough, I dreaded coming online in the morning because I would never know what terrible thing the orn would bring me. There was rage inside me, and shame because I felt rage. I was disgusted that I was ashamed of myself, and I hated that I was disgusted." He huffed a bitter, sad sound. "Hatred is such an easy thing to learn, but it's so hard to let go of. I hated my weaknesses. I hated what I had become." He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the edge of the table to hide his faceplate in his palms. "I still hate what I've become."

A chair pushed away from the table, and then a silver body moved around to stand by Prowl's side. Jazz laid a gentle hand to the tactician's shoulder, urging him to look up. Prowl glanced at the hand on him, then turned his gaze to the glittering crystal of the saboteur's visor. His hand rose and laid atop of Jazz's, taking strength from it.

"It seems strange that I brought you here to talk about your past, and here you are comforting me over mine," he said.

Jazz shrugged. "Partners, remember?" He took his hand back, bracing both of them against the table behind him. "Ah can guess the rest of what happened. Someone showed ya how ta turn your emotional centre off, and that's when things started getting out of hand."

"Essentially, yes," Prowl conceded. "I tried to be better than that, though. I joined Yokétron's dojo. I studied circuit-su in hopes of finding more than just an advantage in hand-to-hand combat. Yokétron knew of my problem and he did everything to help me."

"But you never finished your training," Jazz pointed out.

"The war was beginning to break out at that time. Tension was high, skirmishes were breaking out- no one knew it was Megatron orchestrating it in the beginning. I had less and less time for circuit-su when my attention was needed in a thousand different places." He pushed his chair away from the table, casting his gaze upward to the silver mech standing over him. "Yet another tragedy struck when another student of Yokétron's attacked him. Such needless violence... I've never even learned why he attacked."

"Do ya know who it was?" Jazz asked carefully.

"Lockdown," Prowl murmured, fists clenching. "He is a Decepticon mercenary now."

"Ah know him," Jazz murmured. "Did a couple of deals with him once or twice. Does good work, but he's a little obsessed with taking trophies from his kills."

Prowl shot him a dark look.

"What? Ah said Ah know him. Ah didn't say Ah was still dealing with him," Jazz huffed.

"My apologies," the tactician said, looking away. "Thanks to Lockdown, I never had a chance to finish my training. I was left with only the option to turn off my emotional centre, doing so more often and for longer periods of time. During those times, I was experiencing traumatic situations which compounded when the backlash hit me. Eventually, I became the mech you see now."

"An EMO."

"Yes." So much shame in that one admittance.

"It's not like you're irredeemable," Jazz said softly, the back of his fingers tracing down the side of Prowl's faceplate.

"The same could be said of you," Prowl replied, offering a kind smile as he subtly tilted into the touch.

* * *

_The Emporium of the Allspark was a place that most bots only got to see once in their lives, on the orn that they were brought to life. _

_The Emporium was the place where all sparks came from, and it was the place where all sparks were drawn to. It was a place more beautiful than any painter's brush could ever capture. More wonderful than any imagination could conspire to create. A dome of sparkling crystal shattered light into a thousand rainbows that lit up the room. Gold and silver glittered in the floors, up the walls, veins of it swirling in the ceilings. Power breathed through the air like a living entity that whispered to you all the secrets of time. Everything felt more _real _in this place than in any other moment a bot could experience in their life. _

_In the first moments of a bot's life, whether sparkling or pre-program, they felt the grandness of the threshold they stood on; they were between the world of the living and the place beyond the Allspark. Without being fully aware of who they were or what they were supposed to be, the attention of a great force in the universe would be turned to them. No other moment in their lives would be like their first, when their Creator was focused entirely on the moment they first lived. Someone without form but full of love would smile down at them, bring them into an ephemeral embrace, and whisper, _"Welcome."

_Prowl's entrance into the world was no different. _

_Optimus Prime held the Matrix aloft to the Allspark as blue lights began to dance in the air. The glyphs in the gigantic cube started to glow, coming to life. Power welled in the air like a physical caress. Lightning started to arc from the cube, at first a wild show, but then slowly concentrating in the place where the Prime held the Matrix. Slowly, he drew the ancient artifact away, and in its place the lights whirled smaller and smaller until they pulsed together in the shape of living star that dipped into his open palm. _

_An empty frame awaited, its chest open. The spark seemed to know exactly what it was supposed to do. With a leap, it was home. The sparkcase and chest closed on its own. A moment passed as the electric energy connected with the frame through the sparkcase, and then the frame revved to life. It lifted its head and took its first breath of air. Pale optics lit up. Awareness came into its gaze as its processor booted up, informing him of who he was and what he was supposed to be. His designation was Prowl. He was a tactical adviser for the Simfur Security Response. Fourth in a series of five. _

_To his right, there were three bots standing in a row. They looked as he did, the same frames with the same paint. Their only difference was the colour of their chevrons. They were first, second, and third of five. To his left, a single smaller frame stood quietly, not yet living- she was fifth of five. _

_Optics shooting forward, the newly living bot took stock of the grander bots who stood watching him. Visual recognition programs automatically informed him of the importance of the gathered group: Optimus Prime, the Prime of Cybertron. Lord Megatron, High Lord Protector of Cybertron. Protectorate Ironhide, Prime Directorate Adviser. Raven, Captain of the Simfur Capitol Security Response precinct. _

_Protocols demanded that he bow to his superiors. He moved to do so, but found himself reeling instead. His vision turned woozy, his sense of balance disappearing. Steady hands clasped his arms. Third of five had him, holding him up. Recognition programming labelled the bot as Smokescreen. His chevron was yellow. Other bots came. A medic and a tiny microbot barely as big as his little finger. _

"_Just a little bit of vertigo," said the medic. "His balance calibrations must be a bit off. It's an easy fix." _

_The side of his head was opened. Something was adjusted. The world stopped spinning. _

"_How's that?" asked the medic. _

"_I am operating within acceptable parameters," Prowl announced, staring straight ahead. _

"_Welcome to Cybertron, Prowl," Optimus Prime said warmly. _

_Prowl bowed properly on his second try. _

_Fifth of five was brought to life shortly after. Prowl watched the process of bringing forth a spark with interest. It was among the first memories he was going to form and he believed it pertinent to be aware of his surroundings. Next to him, his fellow newly sparked officers stood as still as he did, watching avidly. The last of their line-up was called Evasia. Her frame was small, labelled as a femme, but of similar design to the four that came before her. Her chevron was teal. Unlike Prowl, she did not have trouble bowing to the Prime her first time. _

_Raven came forward, greeting each one of them with a touch of their hands. He had a different frame type, flight capable. A triangular frame with wide shoulders and wings that jutted from his back. Black paint that shone like spilled oil. _

"_Officers Kingpin, Hunter, Smokescreen, Prowl, and Evasia: Welcome to the first orn of the rest of your lives," said the captain, smiling grandly. It was a strange gesture that none of the pre-programs comprehended. They understood what a smile was, but not the meaning behind such a gesture or what urge would prompt it. _

"_Thank you, sir," Kingpin announced for them all. _

_Raven's smile deepened, nodding. "You five were brought online to serve Cybertron and its people- there is no better function in life than that. Your home will be Simfur, your purpose to serve and protect it. To be Security Response officers is to be part of something greater than yourself. There is great power and responsibility involved in everything you do from here on out. Each of you has been given everything you need to understand what is expected of you in your function, but you will also learn a great many things from the bots around you. I can tell just by looking at you five that I can expect great things from you." _

_An arbitrary assessment, but nonetheless it was appreciated when the five of them were so new. _

"_Now," said Raven, snapping all five officers to attention. "Who's ready to be a part of something greater than themselves?" _

"_We are, sir," all five intoned simultaneously._

"_Good. Then let's go!" Raven bowed to the Prime before making his way out of the Emporium, his officers following after him. _

_Evasia walked next to Prowl, peering up with bright blue optics. "Expectations of our abilities sound high." _

_Prowl glanced down at the femme before turning his gaze ahead again. "I am ready for the challenge." _


	26. Chapter 26

This chapter did not come as smoothly as the last, but alas that's life, right? I wanted to give a little update on Bluestreak's recovery as well as peek into the behind-the-scenes scheming of the commanders of the Autobots. It's not just Prowl who has an invested interest in Jazz, you know?

Major thanks to the reviewers of the last chapter: **Got Buttermilk, Optimus Bob, renegadewriter8, Kathy3meme, phoebe turner, femme4jack, FoghornLeghorn83, Christina, smoking caramels, sparklespepper, Darkeyes17, Jinx, shadowblade-tara, DitzyMusicLover, CNightJoy, Shizuka Taiyou, ChaosGarden, Daklog73, Patcher, chaitea16, abarai-san, Peacewish, Kai-Chan94, BoredTech, MoonWallker, Lecidre, UsagiLovesDouchan, Faecat**, and **A Lurker**! You guys are amazing~! Thanks so much for taking the time to read this story and leave behind such inspiring reviews. You're the magic that keeps this story going. =P

**Chapter 26**

The courtyard hosted more bots than usual for one of Prowl's circuit-su lessons. It was fair to say that the majority of the newcomers were not interested in what was being taught in the least. What was more disconcerting was the fact that bots who had attended the circuit-su sessions since they first began were now more interested in other matters beyond the lessons. The 'other matters' which were drawing new bots and distracting the old ones largely concerned Iacon's resident Head Tactical Adviser.

Prowl was... _different_.

Not drastically different, but subtly so. He still had the same basic personality, which consisted of a distinct _lack_ of personality where most Autobots were concerned. Same frame, same paint, same everything else... but he wasn't _exactly_ the same. He was different in a way that was not entirely noticeable at first, yet if a bot were to be around him for an extended period of time, they would begin to notice that Prowl was not the same Prowl he had always been. It was particularly difficult to articulate the distinctly new nuances the tactician was exhibiting, but nonetheless they were there for those who took the time to notice.

These new quirks became especially pronounced during circuit-su lessons, which was the basis behind so many new Autobots creeping into the lessons. Iacon base was not always exciting, so any little bit of gossip was worthy of checking out. If there was a bot making a spectacle of themselves, far be it from any Autobot to miss such a show, even the suntle kind.

Instead of the usual indifference that Autobots were accustomed to, Prowl showed investment in what he was teaching. It wasn't just a duty to better prepare soldiers, he wanted to teach them. He was _interested_ in their improvements and failures. Pit, there was one orn when he almost looked _happy_ when a few new Autobots showed interest in the circuit-su lessons. That in itself was amazing, since most bots assumed that Prowl didn't do happy. Ever.

Most shocking of all had been the afternoon just as practice got off that Prowl had overheard a simple joke passed between friends and he had laughed at it. _Laughed_ at it. Albeit the laugh had been nothing more than a brief, quiet chuckle, but it was still evidence that Prowl actually had a sense of humour. It was the first time that anyone beyond Smokescreen or Jazz had ever heard a true laugh from Prowl. The incident was nearly urban legend status by now.

No one had any doubt _who_ was the source of such subtle changes.

Jazz was, after all, still a wild card in Iacon. At present though, he was acting relatively tame. It had become habit for him to be present during Prowl's circuit-su sessions with the Autobots. Usually he did not deign to join unless he had the opportunity to demonstrate proper execution of a particular series of movements or if Prowl invited him to spar. Most orns, the saboteur was mildly content to lounge on top of one of the benches that lined the courtyard. As per the usual, he had a cube of energon for himself set near his knee, already a quarter gone. Behind him was a second, untouched cube which no one had any doubts was for Prowl after the lesson.

Like Prowl, there were new, subtle nuances about Jazz that caught many bots' interests. Again, like Prowl, these particularly new changes, which could even be considered improvements, became especially notable during the circuit-su lessons. At one time, the saboteur might have delighted in heckling the group. Harassment worked well, too. Anything that would cause a disturbance and bother everyone within the general vicinity. Now he was quiet in his observations... except when he saw someone doing something wrong. In those cases, he did not hesitate in calling them out on their failures.

Like now.

"_You're doing it wrong!" _

So used to Jazz's random outbursts, very few bots bothered to react. The only ones who looked up were Prowl and the Autobot being addressed. For the failing bot, who happened to be Warpath, he buzzed in embarrassment and hung his head. Prowl, on the other hand, turned to face Jazz immediately with a flat stare.

"Instead of pointing out their failures, why don't you help correct them?"

The saboteur laughed as if it were a bad joke. "Ain't the way Ah learned."

Prowl frowned softly, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Things have changed since then, Jazz."

Jazz drew back a little, pursing his mouthplates.

The courtyard drew in a collective breath, not sure what to expect. Was a fight about to break out? One never knew when it came to a bot like Jazz. He might act semi-tame from time to time, but he was still liable to attack with little provocation. It was a toss up between being a possible verbal fight complete with acidic verbal barbs vile enough to melt audio circuits, or there was the possibility that the Autobots had a physical brawl to look forward to in the near future. Either one was likely to cause damage ranging from the psychological to the physical.

Of course, there was always the _third_ option to choose from. This involved the sexual tension between the saboteur and the tactician finally snapping and they would take each other to the ground in a whirl of armour and lust.

Most shocking of all, the answer to the conundrum was _none of the above_.

"Fine," Jazz huffed, hopping down from his seat in order to make his way over. "Ya owe meh."

"You may put it on my tab," Prowl replied evenly, turning away to resume the lesson proper.

Warpath tensed, leaning away from Jazz's approach. To Prowl, he pleaded, "You can't leave me with him!"

Prowl glanced over his shoulder and offered a bland look. "You are in good hands."

Jazz waggled his clawed fingers, a taunting smile on his mouthplates. "Yep, good hands."

Prowl briefly wondered if that was supposed to be an innuendo or not. In the end, he shrugged and turned his attention to more important things.

Warpath's bleated protests soon quieted when Jazz proved he was not interested in hurting anyone. This time. He was quick and knowledgeable as he moved the larger mech into the correct position. In a quiet tone, he explained what the movements and positions were meant for, how they could be used in a proper fight. His instructions were laced with a few veiled insulted and more than enough taunting to last anyone a lifetime, but if that was the worst he was going to mete out, any Autobot was willing to deal with it.

"He has come a long way, hasn't he?" Optimus intoned smoothly as he watched the courtyard from his skyward vantage point. There was not a lot of cover on the roof, but he was willing to throw caution to the wind for the rare opportunity to see Jazz so unguarded in the presence of Autobots.

"More than I expected," Ironhide grumbled, leaning back against the railing instead of watching the circuit-su lesson. He was not on the roof to watch Jazz. As usual, he was on the roof to watch Prime's back.

Optimus cast his closest confidante a careful look. "Do you still think this is all an act to gain our trust?"

"You never know what someone like him is thinking. He's... tricky," the weapons specialist grunted.

"True. He's one of the most shrewd bots I've ever come across. The more I learn of him, the more fascinating he becomes," Prime agreed.

"He's a warrior, not a sideshow," Ironhide grumbled.

"He's an Old One who gets bored very easily," Optimus replied. "I may not agree with everything my brother stands for now, but Megatron did well to somehow retain Jazz on his side for so long. An agent like him is an asset to whoever he aligns himself to."

"Or he's a ticking time bomb, a threat to anyone who gets near him," Ironhide intoned darkly.

Optimus arched an optic ridge at his companion, to which Ironhide sighed and shook his head.

"Don't get me wrong, Prime. He's... growing on me- like rust. He'd be an asset to the Autobots, but we already know he's hard to pin down. If it turns out he's still double-crossing us, or if he decides he's bored and goes back to the 'Cons..." He ran a hand over his rough faceplate. "I don't want anyone getting hurt, Prime."

"No one has to get hurt," Optimus replied softly. "Prowl has the situation under control. I trust his decisions."

"Maybe Prowl is the one most at risk," Ironhide rumbled quietly, glancing over his shoulder to peer down into the courtyard. "I've got to hand it to Jazz, though. If he is still plotting something, I'm impressed he's lasted this long without cracking."

Optimus shook his head. "Is that really a flattering comment to make about us, Ironhide? A bot is considered strong willed if he does not go crazy after being around us for a vorn?"

Deep set optics regarded Prime with an almost humoured look. "That's exactly what I'm saying, Optimus."

"Sadly, I think there's merit to that," Optimus chuckled.

Soft footsteps sounded on the roof, announcing the presence of a third party. Elita One appeared around the corner of an energy distributor. The half-smile on her faceplate revealed that she had been eavesdropping.

"We're not an easy bunch to live with, Optimus," she said, coming to stand by his side. "But Jazz is incredibly strong willed. I'm sure he can resist our particular brand of insanity."

"Am I to take that as an admittance that you still think Jazz is a Decepticon?" Optimus chuckled lightly.

"Not at all. I think it is a positive thing that Jazz is so strong willed." She came to the railing, peering downward. "It might take a strong bot to stay the same under difficult circumstances, but I think it takes an even stronger one to change. We already know Jazz is not the same from when we first met him, so who is to say that Prowl cannot influence him more?"

Ironhide snorted quietly. "Sounds like poetry to me."

"It is a little bit," the femme admitted.

"Does poetry have any place in war?"

Elita's sharp blue optics glinted knowingly. "You know my answer, Ironhide."

A deep snort came from the weapons specialist.

Optimus cast his mate a half-smile. "So you think Prowl's plan to make Jazz one of us is working?"

"It's already worked. The only thing yet to happen is for Jazz to wear our decal." She patted her sparkmate on the arm. "It's only a matter of time until that happens."

"Now the question is how long will that take?" Optimus asked quietly.

"He has to make that decision for himself," Elita murmured.

Prime nodded, watching as Jazz finished with Warpath and moved on to Windcharger without anyone prompting him to do so. Even more encouraging was the fact that he wasn't bothering to heckle the poor bot. While he worked with the Autobot, Prowl came up behind him and murmured that Windcharger's problem was not that he was not improving, but that he was distracted by Bluestreak still being in the med bay. Following the exchange, Jazz subtly began to drop hints about Bluestreak's improved condition, which brought about an amazing change in Windcharger's performance.

"He'll make an interesting Autobot," Ironhide conceded reluctantly.

"He will, won't he?" the femme chuckled quietly.

"I look forward to officially welcoming him into the fold," Optimus intoned.

As if sensing their regard, Jazz stopped what he was doing to shoot them all a potent glare. Immediately, the three commanders were away from the railing to pretend that they had not been doing exactly what they had been caught doing.

Prowl once again paused the lesson, catching Jazz's unease. "Is something the matter?"

Jazz waited an extra moment until all three bots were gone from sight before answering. "Ah think Ah'm gonna take a walk."

Prowl accepted the sudden change of mood easily. "Just don't hurt anyone."

"No promises."

* * *

Jazz made quick work of seeking out the bot he wished to see. Neither Optimus Prime nor Ironhide were of much interest to him. Optimus might have been among one of the more impressive Primes Jazz knew, but he was still too noble and clean to be scheming anything. As for Ironhide... simply put, he was about as subtle as a flying mallet. Elita One, on the other hand, would most likely yield some interesting answers if Jazz managed to corner her. Although the femme commander was among one of the most elusive bots in Iacon, she could not hide herself for long when he was determined to find her.

Since the moment he had come to Iacon, Elita One and her femmes had shown far too much interest in him. More interest than just the normal wariness. Even the Decepticon femmes he was accustomed to had not been so hellbent on passively tormenting him. His patience was finally spent.

He found her in the same building she had been lurking on the roof of. Ironhide and Optimus Prime were nowhere to be seen, but Chromia stood solidly at her side. They were walking together at a mild pace with their heads tilted toward each other as they discussed some subject. Jazz had a sneaking suspicion that subject might be him. He made a beeline for them, cutting through the hall with ruthless efficiency.

Closing in on the pair, he was surprised when they suddenly stopped in the middle of the hall and turned to watch him. Their expressions were enough to offset Jazz a little, recalculating his sudden bid for answers. Elita One offered a half-smile that said more than she was willing to let on. Chromia was simply watching him with a look of challenge, daring him to come closer. Both of them were waiting for him to catch them. So intent was he on reaching his prize that Jazz did not immediately recognize the obstacle that was quickly moving to intercept him. Before he knew it, a thick body exited an adjoining hall and stepped in front of him. Jazz nearly ploughed faceplate-first into a chest of light yellow armour.

"Just the mech I was looking to find," Ratchet intoned plainly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Jazz snarled, craning around the medic. Elita One and Chromia were already gone. With a curse, he came back down on his heels and shot the medic a poisonous glare. "What the pit do ya want?"

Ratchet arched both optic ridges, not at all impressed with the saboteur's tone. "You are needed in the med bay."

"Ah'm busy."

Ratchet looked over his shoulder, then looked back at Jazz. "Doing what? There are more important things to do than chase ghosts."

"One of those things could be dismembering your head from your body," Jazz spat.

"I would love to see you try," Ratchet replied dryly, turning on his heel to go back the way he came. "Now as I've said, your presence is required in the med bay. Don't make me drag you there."

Jazz bristled, about to spit another acidic retort, but then deflated. There was no point in starting a fight. Elita One and Chromia were gone and he had a feeling it wouldn't be so easy to find them a second time. Decidedly under the shadow of a foul mood, he marched after Ratchet. In the time it took to get to the med bay, he plotted exactly what he was going to do to the femmes when he got his hands on them. Elita One and her femmes had had too much interest in him since the beginning and he was damn tired of feeling like they always knew more than he did. If it came down to it, he'd take Firestar as a hostage. Knowing her, she'd probably enjoy the vacation.

Ratchet walked along with little notice to Jazz's seething. If he had interrupted something, then so be it. Whatever Jazz had been doing was not as important as Ratchet's reasons for going to find him.

"Hey Ratch'," Jazz intoned, annoyance lacing his tone.

"Yes?"

"It better be good."

"It is."

The door swished open to admit them. Ratchet breezed in without mind for the scene within, but Jazz was given pause the moment he stepped foot within the threshold.

Sideswipe glanced up, a smile lighting up his faceplate. "That was quick, Ratch'."

"It was oddly easy to find him," Ratchet replied blandly. "Cause any trouble in here while I'm in my office and I will dismantle you and hide your parts across the base."

The red mech made a face. "I see you've been taking lessons from Jazz on how to give a proper threat."

With a smirk, the medic disappeared into his office.

Jazz shifted in the doorway, his gaze tracking between the recently liberated twins to the one other bot in the room. Bluestreak... online. His processor had finally been returned to the confines of his cranium, his memories and basic data files rerouted as best as Ratchet could manage. It would be a few orns more before Bluestreak's mind caught up with the rerouting and accepted any necessary reprogramming. The back of his head was left open for easy access to his processor, a light force field flashing in the opening to keep dust from getting in. He was semi-sitting up, heavily propped against a wall since he was unable to support himself otherwise. He was almost smiling, though the effort seemed to take a lot of energy out of him.

Sideswipe sat on the berth across from the sniper, swinging his legs back and forth over the ledge. He cast Jazz a simple look devoid of his usual shrewdness or mischief. There was a plain openness about him that Jazz suspected was similar to who Sideswipe had once been long ago when he and Bluestreak had been friends. It was not who Sideswipe was now, though the act did wonders to keep Bluestreak calm.

"He wanted to see you," the red mech murmured, tilting his head to the sniper.

Bluestreak made a broken trilling noise, trying to nod his head. His motor and lingual skills were still on shaky grounds, leaving him limp and mostly mute. Despite the extreme disorganization of his data files, he was aware of one great truth in the world- Jazz had rescued him.

Sideswipe smiled crookedly. "This is the first time he's been lucid, you know? Well, mostly lucid."

"How do ya know he wants ta see meh?" Jazz wondered cautiously.

"Just do," Sideswipe shrugged. "We thought you'd want to see him, too. You rescued him, after all."

Bluestreak made a low, happy noise.

Jazz took a cautious step deeper into the room.

Sunstreaker peeled away from the wall next to the door, shadowing Jazz at his shoulder. Unlike his brother, the golden mech was unable to return to whatever creature he had once been in his youth. He was not an actor or a great liar like Sideswipe. Whatever kindness or softness had once existed in his spark was stripped from him, leaving him unable to give Bluestreak the kind of comfort he needed. Now there was only a brooding threat as he leaned over Jazz's shoulder and whispered, _"Be nice." _

"Make meh," Jazz murmured back, shrugging away from Sunstreaker.

Bluestreak flapped a hand weakly, patting the space next to him in invitation. Jazz stared at the bot for a long moment until Bluestreak's weak smile started to waver. He whimpered and started to turn away. Sunstreaker growled low, advancing on Jazz darkly. Jazz stepped away with a sigh, heaving himself up on the berth. Upsetting the sniper really wasn't worth the trouble it would cause. Bluestreak made another happy noise as he pushed away from the wall, leaning his weight against Jazz's side. Before he could stop it happening, Jazz felt Blue's head come to rest on his shoulder. He immediately went rigid from the contact, which in turn caused the twins to tense.

As if Ratchet could sense the shift in the med bay, he banged on the wall of his office. _"I meant it when I said I'll dismantle you!" _

Sunstreaker's mouthplates curled back in a snarl.

Jazz stared down at the bot now leaning against him. "Ya don't remember meh too well if you're getting so close."

Bluestreak paid no mind to the saboteur's words. He was more concerned with the one memory that he did vaguely have. He remembered seeing silver around him through the haze. A white visor. A whirlwind mind that had plunged into his to calm him down when his own mind started to break down. As far as he was concerned, Jazz was good. The saboteur deserved to be thanked for his efforts. He tried to raise his arms for a hug, but they only made it halfway before flopping back down.

"What in the pit are ya trying ta do?" wondered the saboteur, baffled by Bluestreak's efforts.

Bluestreak gave him a helpless look.

Sideswipe sighed and slipped from the berth he sat on. "Are you really that clueless?" he murmured to Jazz as he took Bluestreak's arms and carefully wrapped them around the silver bot's middle.

A hug?

"Huh," Jazz breathed, a little stunned. He didn't recall ever being hugged before. Staring down at the pale grey bot cinched around his middle, he didn't have the spark to peel him away. He had meant it when he told Prowl he was really starting to hate it when bad things happened to good bots, and Bluestreak had had enough bad stuff happen to him without making it worse. With a sigh, he lifted his hand and laid it to the top of the sniper's head. Comfort was not one of his specialities, so he hoped he was doing it right by petting him gently.

For several long breems, Bluestreak seemed content to sit there hugging Jazz. Jazz was not exactly content to be hugged, but he allowed it because it wasn't worth the fight it would start if he hurt Bluestreak's feelings. The first sign of trouble was when a little sniff escaped the bot. It was quiet, barely noticeable. One sniff followed another. His shoulders began to tremble. Suddenly, he burst out into a wailing, sobbing fit loud enough to be heard clear out into the hall.

Jazz jerked back in horror. What was he supposed to do with something like this? Throw him off? Let him cry?

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were to their feet, prepared to pry Bluestreak away before anyone did anything stupid.

Ratchet himself rushed from his office to see what the matter was.

Through the wailing, it sounded as if Bluestreak were trying to force words out. Garbled noises that made no sense. With each failed attempt, he wailed louder. His arms tried to cinch tighter around Jazz, always failing from lack of strength. Ratchet began to creep forward, withdrawing a sedative from subspace. The more Bluestreak got himself worked up, the more likely he was to do damage to himself. Jazz's gaze shot up, one hand gesturing sharply to halt the medic's approach. He returned his attentions to Bluestreak, continuing to pet his head awkwardly.

"Blue? Blue, can ya hear meh?" Jazz wondered, nearly shouting over the noise of Bluestreak's wailing. When shouting did no good, he leaned down to be close to the sniper's audio. "Ah know ya can hear meh like this."

Bluestreak gasped, turning his faceplate into Jazz's armour to hide.

"Ah know he hurt ya, Blue," Jazz murmured quietly. "Ah know ya hurt a lot right now."

Bluestreak whimpered, nodding his head. He kept his faceplate buried in Jazz's side. His head hurt so badly. It was all a giant jumble. Every time he closed his optics, he could still see a single yellow optic hanging over him. One terrible, unblinking stare that pierced through him like a cold spear. He couldn't remember exactly what had happened or where he had seen the optic, but he knew the bot attached to the dead stare was the one who hurt him.

Jazz glanced up once more to the Autobots looming to close to him, then he looked back down at Bluestreak. "Ah'm gonna find him, Blue. Ah'm gonna find Shockwave and Ah'm hurt him for ya. He'll never hurt ya again."

Whether or not Bluestreak understood the full depth of the promise was up for debate. For several more breems, he cried into Jazz's armour. Jazz, surprisingly, stayed on the berth and allowed the bot to cry himself out. It was a slow process of bringing him back down from the hysterics. Eventually, his energy gave out. His frame turned heavy and his optics went dim, signalling to Jazz that he was safe to slip away. Ratchet came to his side to help lay Bluestreak on the berth, administering the sedative as a precaution in case more wild crying was on the way. It was a sad thing to watch as Bluestreak's already vague optics turned hazy with the effect of the drug. He raised his hand to touch Jazz's faceplate, but could only make it as high as the saboteur's chest. His touch was light as a ghost's before falling away. For the first time since he came online, he made optic contact with someone, staring straight through Jazz's visor into his optics.

"Aut...o...bot," Bluestreak sighed, letting his head fall to the side.

Jazz revved quietly, backing away.

Ratchet did a once over of his patient, checking to make sure nothing else was wrong. He quietly grumbled to himself as he did so, which was oddly reassuring in a very strange way.

Sideswipe leaned against a berth, his optics downcast. "I didn't think he'd react like that."

"Nor did I," Ratchet sighed. "I had thought his data files were still too corrupted for much lucid attention, but obviously I was wrong. On the bright side, it shows that he is recovering at an incredible pace."

"Gee, why is that news so bittersweet?" Sideswipe drawled.

Ratchet raised a wrench in warning.

"Ah gotta go," Jazz intoned curtly, turning on his heel to make a quick exit. Unfortunately, he was not quick enough to escape before being intercepted by Sunstreaker. Jazz jerked back with a scowl. "Get outta mah way."

"Don't think we didn't hear what Blue just said," said the golden mech.

"Blue doesn't even know what he just said. He's out of his mind," Jazz replied curtly, stepping around Sunstreaker.

"He's sane enough to know you. He knows what you did for him," Sunstreaker hissed, keeping on Jazz's heels. "Frag your Neutral status- the moment you went after Bluestreak, you became one of us."

"One of ya? That's a laugh coming from ya," Jazz said snidely, mostly out of defensiveness. "You're still fighting for all the wrong reasons."

Sunstreaker's optics glinted red for a moment. "At least I'm on the right side while doing it."

"Just get out of mah way, Sunstreaker."

"I'll do it when you admit you're as much an Autobot as I am."

Jazz bristled. "When Ah become an Autobot, _Ah'll_ chose the time and place. No one else decides for meh."

"When?"

"What?"

Sunstreaker smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "You said 'when' not 'if'."

Jazz's optics flashed, disgusted by his own slip up. He would have spit some acidic retort back in the Autobot's faceplate, but from the corner of his optic he could see Ratchet and Sideswipe eavesdropping avidly. Sideswipe was open about his ogling. Ratchet was more subtle in the art. Not liking the audience at all, Jazz quit the med bay as fast as he could.

* * *

"Class dismissed," Prowl announced, allowing the Autobots to move on to whatever it was they had planned for the rest of the orn. The tactician had no interest in anyone's plans, his attention more firmly invested in the silver form that had just stalked back into the courtyard. He watched as Jazz made a beeline for the bench he had been previously lounging on. Prowl immediately made a beeline for Jazz.

While approaching, he had the opportunity to watch the saboteur snatch his quarter-empty cube and chug the rest of its contents. Coming to a halt, Prowl watched the energon's steady disappearance from the cube until it was finally righted and Jazz cycled a deep drag of air through his vents.

"Is something the matter?" Prowl asked lightly.

"No," Jazz grunted stubbornly.

"If this is you when there's nothing is wrong, I would hate to see otherwise," Prowl replied, holding out his hand for his own cube. It was smacked into his palm hard enough to slosh some of the contents out the open top. Shaking out his wet hand, he cast the silver bot an unimpressed look. "That was unnecessary."

Jazz turned away, rapping his knuckles on the top of the bench. There was something distinctly feral about his jerky movements. It was the same kind of discomfort he showed whenever someone tried to thank him. Prowl reached out to touch the mech on the shoulder, only to have the saboteur jerk away and clear his vents.

"Ah saw Bluestreak in the med bay. He was online."

"Oh." Prowl stared down at his cube. "How is he?"

"He cried in mah arms," Jazz said unsteadily, looking anywhere but at Prowl.

"That must have been very uncomfortable for you," Prowl said, taking a small sip of energon.

"It was."

"I hope you didn't hurt him," Prowl said quietly.

Jazz tensed for a moment, then snorted. "Promised ya, didn't Ah?"

Prowl chose not to point out that Jazz had made no such promise. He touched Jazz's arm, this time without being jerked away from. It took a moment to coax the saboteur to look him in the optic. "What did you do, if you didn't hurt him?"

For a long moment, it seemed that Jazz would not answer. He stared down at his hands and sighed. "Ah held him while he cried."

"I bet he appreciated the gesture," Prowl said, offering a small smile. Internally, he was both extremely surprised by Jazz's random act of kindness and and proud of him for being able to do it. A vorn ago, the Jazz he had known would not have spared a second before _killing_ Bluestreak. He truly was a changed bot for the better.

"Yeah..." Jazz leaned his weight against the bench, hooking a claw under the seam of Prowl's forearm to draw him close. It was a strange gesture, especially when they were in such a public place, but Prowl allowed the contact out of interest to see what Jazz would do.

"He said something ta meh," the saboteur murmured.

Since Prowl now stood perpendicular to Jazz, he was forced to turn his head to regard the silver bot. "I wasn't aware his lingual files were operational yet."

"They weren't. It was just one word, really." His claws travelled up Prowl's arm, tracing from the armour of his forearm to the broadside of his shoulder. It was on his shoulder that a single proud decal laid, a bright red beacon that represented everything Prowl now stood for.

"He looked right at meh and said _Autobot_," Jazz sighed, the tips of his fingers resting against the symbol on Prowl's shoulder.

"That bothered you?" the tactician asked quietly. He suddenly realized that much of the courtyard was empty now, aside from Firestar lurking in the shadows on the far side, likely ordered there by her division. He was so accustomed to her lurking around Jazz by now that he hardly paid her any mind anymore.

"It bothered meh less than Ah thought it would." It was no longer a 'never' thing with him, nor an 'if' matter of becoming an Autobot. Bluestreak had made him realize that it was only a matter of time until 'when' became 'now'.

"It's your decision, Jazz. If you became an Autobot-."

"Like this?" Much to Prowl's surprise, Jazz's visor flicked up to reveal a set of brilliantly blue optics. It figured that a bot like Jazz could look handsome no matter what colour his optics were. However, if it was a matter of opinion, Prowl figured blue looked best on him. Jazz's faction modulator switched on; at first, it was Decepticon, but Prowl could feel it recalibrating until it matched an Autobot frequency. The whole process was rather easy compared to all the work he had invested in trying to shape Jazz into something... if not an Autobot, then at the very least a bot with a functioning moral code.

Jazz touched the corner of one of his optics. "How do Ah look?"

Prowl opened his mouthplates to reply.

"No, wait, Ah can guess," Jazz cut in. "Ah look symmetrical, right?"

"I was going to say handsome," Prowl replied quietly.

Jazz looked too stunned to think of anything to say in return.

Prowl took the opportunity to turn so that he faced Jazz properly. "If you stayed like that-."

"Nothing would change," Jazz mumbled, snapping from his surprise. His optics drained to white as his modulator switched off again. He pushed away, shaking his head in either frustration or disgust. Possibly both. "Ah would still be the same."

"Exactly." Prowl caught him by the wrist, turning him back slowly. "Jazz, who you are won't change just because you align yourself to a certain side. If anything, _you_ would change _us._"

"You've already changed meh," Jazz admitted faintly.

Prowl frowned lightly, too cautious for hope. "For the better?"

Jazz looked like he was fighting with himself. "Ah think so."

Prowl nodded, offering his usual hidden smile. "Someone like you is precisely what we need, Jazz. I have told you that from the beginning."

Jazz slipped his wrist away from Prowl's touch, pursing his mouthplates. "Ah guess now Ah'm finally starting ta listen."

"Better late than never." Prowl let the corners of his mouthplates tilt up. "Whatever decision you make, I'm sure it will be the right one."


	27. Chapter 27

Wow, I didn't realize it had been over a month since I posted for this story. How time flies! I do hope this chapter is up to snuff. It was a bit of a fight to get things settled, but hell, when you're working with two mechs as stubborn as Jazz and Prowl, basically _everything_ is a fight.

As per the usual, I want to thank the most wonderful reviewers of the last chapter: **SomebodyStandingThere, Pruhana, Midnight Marquis, abarai-san, animelover1993, Nanodiode, ChaosGarden, renegadewriter8, phoebe turner, Optimus Bob, shantastic, Darkeyes17, LionLover19, curse-of-the-cat, Christina, CNightJoy, Swedish Dragon, Gin Kitsune Kijo Ansatsusha, Peacewish, Faecat, smoking caramels, Daklog73, Camfield, A Lurker, Shizuka Taiyou, BoredTech, DitzyMusicLover, Poiseninja, femme4jack, JenEvan, silberstreif, Sideslip, Lecidre, MoonWallker, Got Buttermilk, UsagiLovesDuochan, Nightblooming Orchid, chaitea16, StarscreamII, sarasblackcolt, Anodythe, Sari sumdac, BaiLang,** **M. S. Fisher **and **Wind of the Dawn**! You were all too kind with your wonderful reviews! I cannot thank you enough for your kindness!

Read, Review, and Enjoy~

**Chapter 27**

"Do ya trust meh?" Jazz wondered, searching Prowl's gaze carefully for any sign of wavering.

"I do," Prowl replied. His gaze did not falter. His tone was clear and precise. There was no flinch in his frame as Jazz's touch ghosted over him. He was as prepared as he could make himself for whatever lesson he was about to endure by the saboteur's hands. Mental torture. Physical torture. Or perhaps an unpleasant combination of both...

Jazz rested his claws above the panel that hid Prowl's interfacial port. "Ya know it won't be easy."

"I have known that for a very long time." He slid his fingers around Jazz's wrist, pulling the saboteur's hand downward slowly until it rested directly over the panel hidden in the upper left side of his chest. The sound of Jazz's claws scrapping lightly against the metal rang softly in the tactician's audios. A shiver passed through them both. Their optics were locked as Prowl said, "Do your worst."

Jazz shuttered his optics, perfectly aware of what his _worst _was. His worst got bots killed. He didn't want to kill Prowl. Needlessly, he said, "This part is going ta hurt you a lot more than it will ever hurt meh."

"I understand," Prowl intoned. The hand around Jazz's wrist squeezed for a moment. Not only did he understand, to some degree, the intensity of the exercise they were about to partake in, he was also aware that he would not be the only one suffering.

Prowl's port clicked open first, as if in encouragement. Jazz cycled air through his vents before he followed suit. The silver bot then withdrew the long length of his cable, holding it in the air between their frames. Prowl cast his gaze downward toward the simplistic device, though he needn't inspect it. Nothing more than medium length of cable encased in a woven polymer covering to prevent fraying or snapping during strenuous activities. The colour of the cable was black and the tip was metallic silver, narrowing into a needle-like point. All transformer frames, which the exception of sparklings, were built with similar cables and equally as similar ports. Designs could vary, though function never did.

To interface had many different purposes; to exchange data for business, or to simply get to know another bot. Pleasure could be felt in connecting to the mind of another; platonic affection, familial, or romantic. By contrast, there could be pain through an interfacial connection. Lots of pain

For such innocuous devices as cables and ports, they were weapons in Jazz's hands.

There would be much pain in Prowl's coming future, which he accepted with grim determination.

The needle of the head of the cable scraped the rim of the tactician's port.

"You locked the doors, yes?" Prowl asked, glancing over his shoulder once at the disguised doors of the training room.

Jazz paused in his motions, shooting a guarded look upward. It seemed that he was steeling himself for what was coming as well. "Yeah, Ah did. No one's getting in."

"And-?"

"Ratchet knows we're doing something down here," Jazz continued. "If something happens ta ya, he'll be on alert."

"Good." He shuttered his optics and waited for the interfacial synchronization screen to pop up. Waited for the wild feeling of a storm colliding with his mind. When it didn't come as swiftly as he thought it would, he cracked his optics open again to observe Jazz quietly staring down at the port he was supposed to be connecting to.

"Don't tell me it's been too long since you've done this," Prowl intoned dryly. "You can't possibly have forgotten how it's done."

His one attempt at humour in a while and no one laughed.

Jazz sighed and shook his head. "Sorry. Ah was distracted. Just thinking about..." he paused, then sighed, "things."

Prowl carefully considered the tone his companion was using, recognizing it as the one generally used when he was recalling his unpleasant past. Yet again, his hand came up to encircle Jazz's wrist. This time, his touch was more gentle. "If you're not comfortable with this..."

"No, it's not that." He shook his head, but he didn't draw his hand away from the one who held it. "This is just a little different than how it was done ta meh. Ah'm still wondering if it will work the same way."

"Oh." His hand clasped a little tighter around Jazz's wrist. He was struck by the sudden urge to thread his fingers through the saboteur's. "You never mentioned how it was done to you."

Jazz looked up and met Prowl's steady gaze. It was moments like these that his white gaze didn't look as white as it normally did. Several fortnight had passed since the episode in the courtyard when Jazz had momentarily sported Autobot colours, and since then Prowl had wondered if it was wishful thinking on his part that Jazz's gaze did not seem as starkly white as before, or if the saboteur was simply messing with him.

"Ah don't think listening ta another story from way back when is gonna help ya much right now," said the saboteur.

"No, but it will delay the inevitable for a time," the tactician replied. The words hadn't been meant as a joke, but Jazz found brief humour in it anyways. The corners of his mouthplates curved up vaguely.

"Alright," he relented. "But ya have ta remember that it was different back then. Bots could get away with things that they never would have in the Golden Age."

Prowl could not decide if the words were a warning of the story to come or an apology for what crimes Jazz had committed in the past. Nevertheless, he said, "Go on. I still would like to know how you handled yourself."

Jazz nodded, the humour fading from his features. "When Ah was learning ta control mah emotions, mah master didn't just go inside mah head like Ah'm going ta do to ya. At that point in mah life, Ah wasn't that old and the only memories Ah had were of her beating the slag out of meh. There wasn't enough for her ta work with. She brought bots in and did things to them while Ah watched."

"She tortured them," Prowl said needlessly.

Jazz frowned, looking down at the place where they touched. "Sometimes it was torture and sometimes it was other things. Xerxia did whatever she needed to in order ta push meh ta mah limits." His shoulders tipped up in a shallow shrug. "Ah was allowed ta feel horror, pain, sadness, pleasure... but Ah also had ta be separate from it. You understand that, don't ya?"

"I believe so," Prowl replied.

Jazz nodded. "A part of meh had ta not care that they were screaming and begging for mercy while Ah stood there and watched. Ah had ta train mahself not ta bow ta anything Ah felt." He was quiet for a moment. So quiet that Prowl imagined he heard the saboteur's spark beating against his sparkcase. Or perhaps that was simply his own spark pulsing too loudly in his audios?

Jazz sighed. "Eventually, all of meh stopped caring."

At first, it had only been a separation between what he felt with his spark and what he thought with his head. But the uncaring coldness had spread like an infection. The more he had listened to bots scream under Xerxia's care, the less he cared about them. The more he separated his mind from his spark, the less he cared, the more Xerxia invited him to carry on with the exercises by his own hand. Sometimes it had been pleasuring others without taking pleasure himself. Most times it had been plain torture, letting the waves wash over him like waves on a shore.

He didn't mention the part when he started to _like_ listening to them scream.

Prowl didn't need Jazz to say anything about his past enamouring with others' misery. His processor was already sorting all of the new information into place and coming to its own conclusions. Jazz's exemplary skills at physical torture must have been inherited from his sessions with Xerxia, only to be expanded upon during his time as a freelance lunatic. His once utter lack of empathy was explained, as well. If anyone was subjected to such techniques for long enough, their ability to empathize with others and understand right and wrong would inevitably erode. Jazz was merely a product of that.

"You were used so poorly," Prowl murmured, making Jazz's gaze jump to his once more.

Jazz tried to offer his usual smirk, but it came out more like a grimace. "Can't change the past, Prowler. Be grateful Ah got the skills Ah have, or else you'd be outta luck looking for someone ta fix ya."

"Then I am grateful, even if I am a little...saddened by your early mistreatment."

"Nothing is ever 'a little' with ya," Jazz reminded wryly.

"You know what I mean," Prowl replied, turning his faceplate away a little. "I am disgusted with whoever this Xerxia was for doing everything she did to you. She bastardized circuit-su for her own vile purposes, and she turned you into-." He cut himself off, not wishing to finish the sentence.

"A monster," Jazz stated matter-of-factly. "Go on, ya can say it, Prowl. Ah was monster."

"_Was_ being the operative word in that sentence," Prowl pointed out. "No matter your past, I trust you to do this now." He tugged Jazz's hand closer to his open port. The needle of the cable scraped along the opening.

Jazz cycled air through his vents and let the cable sink home. Both of their frames tensed as they felt the automatic synchronization of their minds happen. There was never a complete synchronization between them as there normally was between bots. It was unusual, but not unheard of. Given that their minds operated in such vastly different and seemingly incompatible formats, there was always enough friction between them to make it interesting. Enough to keep Jazz interested. Enough to keep Prowl wary.

"Your firewalls are still up," Jazz commented out loud, perusing through Prowl's mind leisurely. He couldn't go too far while Prowl's guard was still up. The tactician had not lost his edge since his confinement in Straxis; he could still put up one pit of a challenge if he decided not to be cooperative.

"Sorry," Prowl murmured.

It took a moment for the tension to drain out of his frame enough so that he could concentrate on taking down his firewalls. As he did so, he shifted for a more comfortable sitting position. If he was going to be mentally tortured in the next few breems, he might as well be comfortable for it. Jazz unconsciously did the same, mirroring Prowl's sitting position. Prowl could feel Jazz in his head like some kind of acute affliction. Like concentrated data corruption without the haywire feeling of losing one's own data; he was a whirlwind that both sucked Prowl in and repulsed him away. The more he took down his firewalls and opened up vulnerable databanks to the saboteur's mercy, the more acute his experience of Jazz within him became.

Jazz closed his optics and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and letting his forehead rest in his palms. He headed straight for Prowl's memories, intending to find ones best suited for his needs. The most painful memories he could find. Ones that would hurt Prowl over and over again. Hurt him until he learned to accept the emotions and let them exist, but remain the master of them.

Prowl's most recent memories came to the fore immediately. They were not necessarily what Jazz was looking for, but he decided to peruse anyways. Neither of them were in a big rush. Prowl had the orn off and Jazz simply didn't want to work, so he didn't. The tactician immediately went tense as he felt Jazz begin picking around. His defences started to go up as if he were anticipating an immediate attack.

_Calm down, _Jazz said through their connection. _Ah'm just looking around. You'll know when Ah'm getting ta the good stuff._

Prowl forced himself to relax once more.

Most of the memories Jazz happened across were the basic orn-to-orn kind. Nothing exciting had happened around base recently, so Prowl's memories were mundane. Most of them were shared with Jazz anyways, because they were in each other's company so often. Their usual meeting in the morning for a cube of energon. Discuss their plans for the orn; exchange any pertinent information they had; agree on a time in the evening when they could both meet again. They went about the rest of their orns normally. Evening would come and Prowl always showed up ten breems early. Jazz always showed up ten breems late. They would drink, chat, and then migrate back to Prowl's office to work until they realized that most of the night was already gone and they were forced to part for their own respective rooms.

Jazz startled himself by suddenly realizing he had fallen into a routine without being aware of it. How strange to be part of a routine. Stranger still was the fact that he did not seem bothered by the reality.

Prowl was a remarkably well-time bot, not that Jazz had not realized that fact before; he operated like clockwork throughout any given orn. The only breaks in the routine tedium came few and far between. A few times Blackhawk commandeered Prowl for a private exchange of information that Jazz had not been able to steal and hand over first. Occasionally, Elita One and her femmes appeared fishing for information on Jazz from Prowl. One memory boasted of Firestar propositioning Prowl for a night that he would never forget and the tactician politely turning her down, citing that he had an important meeting to attend to. Jazz checked the time stamp on the memory and discovered that it had been the night the two of them had gone for a quiet night drive outside the base's perimeter for no other reason than to be in each other's company without the distraction of Iacon around them.

_I enjoyed that night, _Prowl said lightly when he discovered which memory Jazz was looking up.

_Ah did too, _Jazz found himself replying. _The stars were nice. _

A hidden ghost of a smile appeared on the tactician's mouthplates. _They were, weren't they? _

Jazz moved on from the recent memories. He bypassed most memories that encompassed the time between the present to the moment they had first encountered each other. There wasn't much to look up that Jazz didn't already know about. Strange as it might seem, they had spent the majority of the last vorn in each other's company. There was nothing new in the memories; nothing truly interesting for Jazz and nothing particularly painful for Prowl.

He travelled deeper, pleased to find that no matter how far back into Prowl's memory files he went, the same basic format still existed. Not a byte of data out of place. Every file neatly in its place. If it were possible for dust to build up in a memory, there would not be a speck of it in Prowl's mind. He was _impeccable_. Normally, there was some form of degradation on older memories, but there was no evidence in Prowl's mind. With such meticulous upkeep of his mind, he would have been able to remember his first orns of life as well as he would have remembered his most recent. Absolute perfect clarity. There was no way he could keep everything in such pristine order without regularly defragging his entire CPU. When did he ever find time to do something like that when it seemed like he barely had enough time as it was to get a full night's worth of recharge?

Jazz briefly wondered what that would be like, and then he decided it was best he never knew. His life... maybe some things were better off not being remembered.

Prowl, on the other hand... it suited him to have such a spotless mind. His was the kind that programmers would use as an example of the epitome of the well-programmed mind. Jazz imagined having perfect recall was part of what made Prowl as formidable a tactician as he was. He also had no doubt that memories with the clarity Prowl hosted also helped him perpetuate the cycle of self-hatred. He was able to go over every detail of every mistake he had ever made and never be able to forget exactly what prices he had paid for each little proof of his imperfection.

That was Prowl's dirty little secret. No matter how clean the facade was, Jazz knew about the festering rottenness inside. From that one time inside Prowl's mind, he knew about the rage and agony. The fear and misery. Prowl's personal pit of loathing and rancid self-hatred. It was all inside his head somewhere; it was the reason Jazz was in there now. He needed to find it and force Prowl to confront it.

Prowl revved lightly, not sure how to interpret Jazz's line of thought this time. The saboteur was either thinking Prowl was a dirty mech, or he was thinking dirty thoughts about him. Or, at least, that's what he could gauge from Jazz's unusual thought processes.

Jazz glanced up, catching on to the puzzlement. He chuckled because the feeling of it was strangely pleasant against his mind; he'd never felt polite puzzlement from anyone before. For his company's reassurance, he offered a small, crooked smile. _Don't worry about it, _he said.

_You are looking for material to torture me with and I should _not_ be worried? _He sounded sceptical.

The saboteur sagged a little. _Alright, be worried. _

Through his open search of Prowl's mind, Jazz found several memory files tagged _Evasia: Fifth of Five. _By the startled hesitation and then then brief wave of panic that flew through Prowl when he realized Jazz was interested in the tagged memories, Jazz knew this was where he should start the training session. He searched out memories that had a short time stamp on them but were disproportionately large files. The mark of a heavily emotionally invested memory. He found one at random and drew it to centre stage, surprised to find Prowl's automatic resistance.

"Not that one," said the tactician, gripping Jazz's knees tightly.

"Ya agreed ta mah terms when we started this, Prowler. No backing out now."

"I know, but..."

They locked gazes, fire and defiance sparking between them. With their minds connected as they were, it was an even more intense experience than it normally was. The presence of their considerable willpower felt like a physical clash between them. Prowl felt himself heat up as he resisted Jazz's advances into that specific memory. There was no need for that memory. Absolutely none.

However, Jazz was now determined to use it because of the mere fact that Prowl was so determined to deny it. The silver mech revved low like a growl, his frame coiling tight. He snapped forward, bowling Prowl over until the tactician was on his back and pinned to the dais. The sudden physical assault left his mind unfocused for all but an astrosecond, which was all the time Jazz needed to get in. Like batting aside cobwebs, he brushed aside Prowl's distraction to gain a better foothold in the tactician's mind.

"I should have tried this in Straxis," Jazz said with a short laugh, looming above Prowl with his clawed hands keeping the other mech's wrists to the floor.

"I doubt it would have been as effective as it is now," Prowl replied mulishly, turning his faceplate away.

Jazz smirked. "No, Ah don't suppose it would have been." His legs were spread so that his knees rested on either side of the tactician's chest. He supposed if Prowl really wanted, he could lurch up to use his legs to dislodge Jazz, but it seemed to be deemed an illogical move when Jazz already had access to the memory he wanted. There was no point fighting anymore.

"It will do you no good to use that one," Prowl intoned as a condemned last effort.

"Ah'll be the judge of that," Jazz replied, opening the memory to let it play for the tactician. He tightened his hands around Prowl's wrists in case the emotions that hit were too volatile for him to handle.

The file activated slowly, as if the memory itself were somehow subconsciously resisting what was about to happen.

In both of their minds' optics, a scene came together. Pieced together like a hologram; first pixelated and then sharpened. Colours adjusted. Depth and detail added. Frenetic movement quickly became apparent. And then the sounds of the memory activated a little too loudly-

"_Oh Primus, yes! Yes! More, Prowl! Touch me more!" _

...oh wow.

Totally not the kind of file Jazz been expecting.

He had firewalls up to prevent anything from Prowl's mind leaking through and affecting him, but he could still _see_ the memory playing out. A very hot and intimate memory. It was from Prowl's point of view, so most of the memory's visual aspect was absorbed by the image of a femme with a teal chevron arching and writhing in wild abandon. Jazz could see details from the periphery, though. He could see the small room with its dim lights and covered window; a single engraving on the wall below the window announced the room as property of Simfur's Capitol City Security Response. A low berth in the corner that both Prowl and his company had failed to arrive to before they succumbed to their activities.

"_Evasia, keep doing that- Please!" _

The sound of Prowl's passion-roughened voice startled Jazz. Such blatant and uncontrolled emotion flooded into every syllable; there was heat and desperation and the wonderful insanity that came when someone was insanely close to hitting that ultimate crest of pleasurable perfection. So different was Prowl's voice in this memory from his usual controlled tones that he was nearly unrecognizable.

Jazz could attest to the fact that he was rarely ever struck dumb by anything. It was a very rare moment, indeed. However, as the dawning realization of what he was truly seeing washed over him, Jazz discovered that he was, in fact, dumbstruck by it. His vision rocked back and forth in time to the motion of Prowl's frame writhing against his partner's. He could hear the rev of taxed engines and the desperate whirr of cooling fans. Metal scraping and clashing roughly as the two bots lost themselves to the whirlwind of passion. He could not feel the mounting tension between the lust-ridden bots, but he sensed their final climb to completion. Their cries became louder and more abandoned. Their movements frenzied as their minds were swept away. Physical frames reduced to their basest form as ecstasy consumed them.

Jazz opened his optics and attempted to lean away. This was not the kind of memory he had been looking for. Yes, he could use it if he so chose, because it undeniably contained the type of strong emotions that Prowl would have to master eventually. While pain, fear, rage, and loathing were amongst the strongest obstacles to overcome, positive emotions could be considered just as difficult. Perhaps even more so, since pleasure could be a temptation that many found hard to resist. But... he was struck by the sudden odd concept that this was a _private_ memory.

It was something he was not supposed to see.

More than that, he _cared_ that he was not supposed to see it.

"Prowl, Ah..."

The words trailed off when the sound of a long, drawn out groan reached his audios. Not an echo from the past playing in his head. It was Prowl. In real time. And the sound that came out of him was nearly as lost in abandon as his past self was. Jazz's optics wide and bright as he realized what had become of his company. The distraction offered by the surprisingly passionate nature of Prowl's secret memory had made Jazz forget that he was still connected to Prowl, and that Prowl himself was the one who was taking the brunt of the emotional cascade.

Even with the knowledge of what had been coming, Prowl had been ill-equipped to circumvent the worst of it. With his firewalls down, not only had it given Jazz free rein through his mind but it had left him open to the mercy of his own past without a proper buffer. His EMO condition had taken the already intense nature of the intimate encounter with Evasia and blown it far out of proportion. Snared him in the moment and smothered him in the inescapable grip of raging lust. Now he was caught in a place between abject torture and total ecstasy.

Another groan escaped him. His hands, now free of Jazz's grip, travelled down his frame with minds of their own. He shivered as the coolness of the ground met the smouldering heat growing inside him.

Like a pile of dried out debris left to a barren desert for too long, Prowl had only needed a spark to ignite.

Fire raced through him.

His neural circuits sizzled along the underside of his armour; stinging and tingling at the same time.

Hot. So hot. Hotter than he had ever been in a very long time.

The sudden spike in his internal temperatures summoned warnings to pop up in his vision. His vents rattled with the unsteadiness of his need to draw in large amount of cool air for his systems. His doorwings shuddered and flapped while the rest of his armour trembled with desire-laden tension. His blue optics shot up and could see both Evasia underneath him and Jazz looming over him, their images superimposed over the other. Evasia was not beautiful; she was like Prowl. Plain and utilitarian, though smaller in design than himself. It was her qualities, such as her smile and the way she expressed her faith in Prowl to be able to learn to really _live_ like everyone else, that had made her a stunning individual. The remembered touch of her mind against his, under normal circumstances, would have brought only a sad fondness and only a waft of warmth. Now an inferno raged inside him.

And then there was Jazz, existing right there in the midst of reality with a stunned look on his too-handsome faceplate. If circumstances had been different, Prowl would have been inclined to save that expression to his memory banks simply for the pleasure of knowing Jazz was capable of being surprised. However, the current reasons for Jazz's immobility were the very same reasons Prowl was unable to do anything about the saboteur's expression.

Between them, Jazz's cable pulled taut as he leaned farther away. They were on the verge of disconnecting; one good wrench would have them away from each other. To do so would be both a blessing and a curse. Jazz would no longer be privy to the show inside Prowl's head. He would no longer be a voyeur amongst one of the tactician's most private moments. But their separation would not stop the cascade action already in progress. Prowl was already swept away by the amplified emotions of the memories, helpless to stop or resist it. He would humiliate himself no matter what happened now.

No, scratch that.

He was already irreparably humiliated by the mere fact that Jazz had seen this part of himself. In only a few breems, he would sink to a new level of pure mortification so low that he probably already had a place in the lowest level of the pit reserved for him.

"_Prowl, oh Prowl- you're so good at this. You're so- ah!" _Evasia continued to mewl in his mind, the clarity of her voice so clear that he could almost mistake her for being right there in the present with him. Holding on to him. Looming in front of him.

But it wasn't Evasia in front of him. It was Jazz. Still watching him. Prevented from looking away or blinking by a sense of morbid fascination that was etched across his faceplate.

Worse than Jazz staring at him, Prowl found that he could not take his optics away from Jazz. Jazz seemed to be having the same problem. Not only were their gazes frozen, but their frames were seized as well. Caught both metaphorically and physically in the moment. Jazz tugged backwards, continue to try to prevent himself from seeing something he knew Prowl did not want him to see, but there was no real conviction in his struggles. Even though the saboteur wasn't going anywhere, Prowl's frame lashed forward faster than his mind could process, wrapping his strong fingers around Jazz's knees to shackle him to the spot.

A startled curse fell from Jazz's mouthplates as he looked down to the vice-like hands that gripped him.

It was not that Prowl wanted Jazz to bear witness to his coming release, but more that his frame had craved something to latch on to while the world spun too fast out of his grasp and Jazz had been the only available anchor.

Once again, if Prowl had been in his right mind, he would have been able to appreciate the irony of anchoring himself to someone who could have been considered chaos incarnate at one time.

"Prowl_,"_ Jazz said, his voice strangely soft and cautious as he spoke. Trying not to startle the mech who was too far gone as it was. "Prowl, Ah know this isn't what we planned, but ya can fight this. Control it. At least... just try." He leaned forward now, clawed hands coming to rest above Prowl's own.

A rough curse escaped Prowl. He knew what those hands could do. Corrupted by the vivid imagery in his head, his too-fast mind contributed a thousand logical scenarios of what Jazz could be doing with his hands. With his magnetic touch. Barely able to think anymore, possessing only enough self-awareness to be horrified by the thoughts he had just conjured, Prowl jerked his hands away, bracing them behind his back. He arched high, mouthplates parted, optics closed.

He watched as Evasia's optics snapped open, her bright gaze awed and wondrous as she finally came to the zenith of her overload. Her mouthplates parted on a silent scream that echoed Prowl's designation. Prowl of the past arched above her, a guttural sound coming from him as an intense wave of concentrated pleasure exploded in his head and rushed outward to encompass his entire frame. He and Evasia synched together, sharing their overload on a continuous loop that shot them higher.

Prowl of the present was suddenly blinded by the extreme burst of sensation that detonated inside him. His vision flashed bright for a split astrosecond before going black. He could hear the sound of his own voice crying out as his own violent, reluctant release struck him. He was _paralysed_ by it. Unable to move, think, or feel beyond the intensity of the sensations hitting him wave after wave. It was pure electricity. Pure fire. Pure pleasure in its rawest, most potent form.

And it was too much.

Too much for someone like Prowl to handle.

Far too much for _anyone_ to handle.

With one last keening cry, Prowl's neural net overloaded to the maximum and promptly shut down.

Jazz was left sitting on the dais staring at the unconscious tactician for nearly a full breem before he had the conscience to move. First his hand came to his faceplate and scrubbed his features roughly. Then he looked to the side, and then the other side. He looked back down at Prowl and looked away again. He... didn't know what to do.

It felt like forever ago when he had first experienced the true depth of what Prowl was capable of feeling and had wondered what passion might feel like to a bot who felt emotions magnified by a thousand.

Now he was not so sure how fun the true reality of the matter was.

Whether it was out of pity or kindness, Jazz lurched forward to tug his cable from Prowl's port. With the tactician unconscious and his defences null, Jazz truly did have the best opportunity to see into every nook and cranny of the complicated bot. He refused the chance. Enough private sides of the tactician had been seen today without more being exposed. Jazz had enough respect for his partner to know when it was time to say enough was enough.

It was simple business of withdrawing his cable. A single tug and his mind was his own again, even if images of a writhing femme and the sounds of Prowl lost in passion still churned wildly through his head. He did not think any manner of reprogramming or deletion would ever be enough to erase the image of Prowl himself bowed to the ardent tide of irrepressible lust. It was, on its own, a very intriguing image to which Jazz's attention was acutely drawn in more ways than one. His intrigues would have to wait for another orn.

He ravelled his cable away, though remained crouching over Prowl. One finger reached out and touched the tactician's faceplate right below one dark optic. In an instant, Prowl rebooted and his optics flickered to life. Time seemed to freeze as the two bots comprehended the moment they were in and in what distinctly intimate positions they found themselves to be in.

First there was panic in Prowl's gaze.

And then there was rage.

Knowing he was an EMO, that rage would burn hot and black right down to his core.

In a flash, Prowl's legs sprung up to brace his feet against Jazz's chest, and then he thrust outward with all his strength. Jazz was thrown violently to one end of the dais. Prowl scrambled backwards in the opposite direction until he came to the unguarded edge and toppled over it. He hit with a thud, but was on his feet in astroseconds. He was shaking again as he stood, but this time it was not from an ardour he did not wish to feel. The flames that licked at him were not lustful. For once, his self-hatred now rivalled with a hatred for another living being.

Jazz pushed himself into a sitting position and stared across the dais at the storm-grey mech that glared blackly at him. With a closer look, he could see past the rage to the thousand other emotions that now stormed free through the Autobot; shame, humiliation, disgust, loathing, devastation...

The saboteur could think of very little to say in a moment such as this.

Prowl clenched and unclenched his fists, mouthplates working tensely to form words that choked on his fury. Eventually he managed to form a sentence that embodied the totality of his revulsion for what just happened:

"If you ever tell anyone what happened here, I will hurt you. Badly."

Jazz opened his mouthplates... maybe to apologize for things getting so terribly out of hand.

Prowl did not wish to hear a word from the saboteur, too engrossed in himself at the moment to care for anything Jazz might say. He turned on his heel and quit the training room under a dark storm cloud.

Jazz sighed and looked down, coming to the conclusion that perhaps he was _not_ the best mech to help Prowl with his problems. He had a feeling he just made every problem invariably _worse_.


	28. Chapter 28

My goodness, it is hard to believe that this story only recently reached it's one thousandth review! When I published the first chapter to this story one fateful evening in December two (almost three!) years ago, I never imaged how wildly popular it would become. I am beyond honoured that so many people have come to read this story and leave a little something behind to let me know I'm doing my job right. I love it when I get to hear from all of my readers; you guys are what make writing this story worth it. One thousand reviews simply blows my mind.

The distinct honour of being my one thousandth reviewer belongs to **NightBlooming Orchid**. You are too wonderful, my dear.

Of course, this wonderful occasion could not come to pass without the contributions of many wonderful readers out there. I have nothing but love for you all. Every time you leave a review, it only makes me want to continue this story more. Thank you so much to **Katea-Nui, CNightJoy, Marinelife37, quasarmom, Darkeyes17, BoredTech, Psyche102, sparklespepper, NightBlooming Orchid, Wind of the Dawn, Camfield, abarai-san, Sideslip, Peacewish, thundergryphon, Daklog73, renegadewriter8, Optimus Bob, Christina, FunkyFish1991, MoonWallker, luinrina, smoking caramels, Elita One, Midnight Marquis, RamenNoodlesXD, Got Buttermilk, femme4jack, phoebe turner, Poiseninja, Faecat, StarscreamII, Daebereth, Uniasus, ChaosGarden, Lecidre, Rococo Spad**e, and **VyxenSkye!**

Read, Review, and Enjoy~!

**Chapter 28**

As much as Jazz was loath to stay in his little cage of an office, he found that he had little else where he wished to be ever since his botched encounter with Prowl several orns before. There was no other place that held appeal to him, even the places that had once been his favoured haunts; the Observation Deck, the roofs of the ruined buildings beyond Iacon's walls, the courtyards. There was almost a repulsion to be in such places. More than that, he wished to be _alone_ with his brooding thoughts in his cage of an office, which to his knowledge was an absolute first for him. It was normally the noise and distraction of outside forces that he sought so that his private thoughts did not take over like they did in the silence.

Even Firestar had been dismissed from her usual lurking when Jazz could no longer tolerate her presence. She had not taken to her dismissal lightly. Indeed, she had objected with the usual flare one would come to expect from someone so overtly flashy and accustomed to attention. Nevertheless, she was forced to accept her dismissal when Jazz had actually _raised his voice_ at her and made it a direct order for her to be away from him immediately or else he would report her as a nuisance to Elita One.

Jazz did not want to dwell on the fact that he had both lost his cool to an inferior being and had failed to deliver a proper threat laced with his usual flare for bodily harm. _Report her to Elita One?_ Who did he think he was- a commander or something? He wanted to purge.

Firestar had been as shocked as he was to hear such a direct and uncreative order. Perhaps for that very reason, she had left Jazz's company quietly and thoroughly disturbed.

Since that time when he had ordered Firestar away, none came to see him bar Bluestreak, who was showing progress in his recovery every orn that passed. Usually in the company of either Ratchet or the twins, the sniper came for only short periods of time to sit in the uncomfortable chair across from Jazz's desk and smile vaguely for several breems. Once or twice, he attempted to babble, though his lingual files remained in such a state of disrepair that he usually only managed a few comprehensible words among a cascade of noise. His movements were much more coordinated, perceptibly improving every orn; when in alt mode, he could drive slowly through the halls. When standing on two legs, his balance was not the best, but he could walk with the support of another to help him. He appeared capable of remembering several past events, because his babbling would occasionally refer to 'Crystal City', several different shades of blue, 'Sunny'n'Sides', as well as repeated use of the word 'thank you.'

Bluestreak was the only company that Jazz made effort to tolerate for a limited time. For anyone else, Jazz found himself increasingly irritated and simply wanted them gone. For Bluestreak, he masked his foul mood in order to host a facade that would not upset the fragile bot who insisted on visiting. While Bluestreak did not say much during their meetings, Jazz said very little at all. He would smile and nod when Bluestreak came and then smile and nod when he left. It was up to whomever was presiding over the sniper to inform Jazz without prompting the details of Bluestreak's continued miraculous recovery, though their exchanges were stilted and brief since they could sense Jazz's impatience to be alone again.

What constituted the rest of Iacon base had decided to give the saboteur as wide a berth as possible. They were nearly as cautious as they had been when Jazz had first come to them, even though a complete reversal in Jazz's behaviour had been noted. As of late, there had been no thefts to be reported, no mischief made that could be directly linked, nor even the slightest blip on the radar to announce that Jazz had any interest in bothering anyone. He wished for everyone to avoid him, and he wished to avoid everyone.

One bot in particular he _did not_ wish to see, to whom he had not exchanged a word since... the unfortunate incident in the training room.

Looking on the bright side, Jazz had accomplished so much work in such a little amount of time due to his unnatural fixation with locking himself away from the general population that he had probably broken several of his own personal records.

On the dark side, he was slowly driving himself insane. Again.

There came a knock at the door to announce a break in the monotony of work and his own personal demons slowly consuming his self-awareness and lucid comprehension. Jazz stared at the door suspiciously, knowing that Bluestreak was not due for a visit for another couple of joors.

"Jazz, I know you're in there," said Blackhawk, clear and calm through the metal door.

"Ah know Ah'm in here, too," Jazz replied, though he did not bother to give any further recognition of the Special Ops commander.

"May I come in to speak with you?" the other bot asked.

"No," Jazz said curtly. He continued to work on whatever he was working, though he found that he had little idea of what it was. Just a report about something, lacking in his usual flair and veiled insults that he usually liked to include. Boring, uninteresting, mundane work that he wasn't even forcing himself to do. Obviously there was something terribly, horribly, disturbingly wrong with him if he was okay with doing grunt work.

"Ah, that's too bad," Blackhawk sighed through the door. "I have every intention of speaking with you regardless."

"Ya can suck exhaust while you're at it," Jazz grumbled mulishly.

Blackhawk said something, but it was so low that Jazz did not catch the words. It was obvious that the commander had no intention of heeding anyone but his own interests at the moment. He did not bother to attempt the lock on the door, assuming Jazz had already applied his special touch to it. Instead, he unsheathed the sword at his back, the one that marked him as a student of the art of diffusion rather than circuit-su, and rammed the blade gracelessly into the spark of the control panel. A quick twist of the blade ensured maximum damage to the panel. The door shushed open moments later without any form of resistance.

"Do ya normally pick a lock like that?" Jazz asked dryly, watching as the fellow saboteur sheathed his weapon once more.

"As a matter of fact, no," Blackhawk replied calmly. "Usually I am a little more graceful. However, you have a talent for bringing out recklessness in many individuals."

"Yay for meh," Jazz said. "Now that ya have thoroughly ruined the lock and mah office now stinks of burning polymer, ya can go away now."

"After all the effort it took to come in here? I think not," said the Autobot. "I did have a purpose for coming here, not only to ruin your mood." Though the door was wide open, he did not enter. He _never_ entered. Jazz doubted it was from distrust, since the commander displayed a notable amount of investment in him whenever Jazz was given an important task to fulfil for the Autobots. Jazz had long ago concluded that Blackhawk's reluctance to enter any small, confined spaced where Jazz was cooped up in was simply a personal quirk.

Jazz's gaze sharpened behind his visor, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouthplates. "Do ya have something for meh ta do?"

Preferably something that would involve getting _away_ from base and be alone from living [storm-grey] company for a while.

"Not quite," Blackhawk sighed, propping his shoulder against the door frame.

"If it's not a mission, than get away from meh. Ah got better things ta do." He pointedly reached for the keyboard of his computer and resumed a furious typing pace that appeared to be more of an assault on the poor piece of office equipment.

Blackhawk scowled at Jazz's forced activity. "You are driving yourself insane in here," he said with a thread of concern in his voice. It was one of the few times he was not coolly detached from a conversation.

"Who says Ah ain't loving every moment of it?" Jazz sneered.

"Prowl may know you best, Jazz, but the rest of us are hardly blind." He sighed, adjusting the dull black gauntlets on his forearms. "I have no idea what happened between you and Prowl, but whatever it is, you shouldn't punish yourself by locking yourself away. Especially isolating yourself. You and I both know nothing good will come of that."

Jazz still did not look up from his work. He remembered how easily Prowl had seen through that one weakness of his, even after having only known each other for such a short amount of time. It had been the first time he'd gone to the Observatory Deck, as well as the first time he had ever been allowed inside Prowl's mind...

He shook his head and dismissed the thought.

"Ah've been working just fine, thanks. Ah don't need no caretaker looming over meh while Ah work."

Blackhawk was not to be dissuaded so easily. "You upset Firestar terribly by sending her away so nicely. She said you were, and a I quote, '_heinously polite and disgustingly upstanding_'." He cracked a half-smile. "As it was told to me by Chromia, it cannot even be described how upset she was that you had not threatened bodily harm."

"That is one twisted femme," Jazz muttered with a soft curse.

"I would have to agree with you- she is a... _unique_ creature." He said 'unique' the same way he might have said 'utterly bizarre'. "However, I do think she has a point in this case. It is not like you to be heinously polite and disgustingly upstanding. It's obvious whatever transpired between yourself in Prowl-."

"_-is none of your business,_" Jazz cut in with definite menace in his tone.

Blackhawk paused, drawing back a fraction. He pressed his mouthplates together, realizing that he would have to tread carefully if he wished to continue the conversation. He did not want to draw his sword again to defend himself should he take a verbal misstep, but the topic of Jazz and Prowl's 'partnership' was a minefield threatening to explode with little provocation.

"Yes, of course. It is none of my business what happened between the two of you," said the Special Ops commander cautiously. "I merely meant to point out that the current rift between you two is distressing to the rest of base."

Jazz's optics flashed, his scowl deepening. "Don't ya all have better things ta do than twitter about the private lives of two bots?"

"I wish that were the case," Blackhawk responded.

It was not just Jazz's behaviour that gave rise to anxieties around base. Ironically, decreased activity from the saboteur seemed to have the opposite of a reassuring effect now; bots became concerned of the possibility of a bottling effect, which, upon reaching critical mass, would explode outward violently. There was also Prowl's recent behaviour that drew concern. He acted the same and yet different. His mannerisms were stiffer, his exchanges a little more curt than usual. Where there had once been hints of subtle improvements in the tactician's disposition- a sociability no one had known existed in him- it was as if he had spontaneously taken several steps backwards until he was nearly intolerable now.

Jazz cursed softly.

Blackhawk dared a single step into the room, more than he had ever dared before. It showed the depth of his unspoken concern for Jazz. Carefully, measuring each word spoken, he said, "You have no wish to discuss it?"

"Even if Ah did, what makes ya think Ah'd want ta discuss it with you?"

"A hunch," replied Blackhawk, causing Jazz to finally look up at him. It was then that the commander offered yet another crooked half-smile, one that was not as handsome as Prowl's.

"We're not friends," Jazz stated flatly, glaring.

"We are colleagues," Blackhawk intoned. "I am very adept at keeping secrets, Jazz. If at any time you feel the need to speak with someone, I am available." He figured this was as far as he dared to push the subject. Any farther and he might end up with a fight on his hands. Or, worse yet, Jazz would decide that sticking around was no longer worth the effort and he would simply leave. Should that happen, he would _not_ come back. Quietly, he backed his way into the hall, since old habits prevented him from turning his back on Jazz.

Jazz sighed, ceasing his assault on the keyboard. He shoved it away from himself as if disgusted by its existence.

Blackhawk halted his retreat, sensing the sudden shift in the silver bot.

"Ah might have seen something in Prowl Ah wasn't supposed ta see," Jazz murmured.

"Ah," said Blackhawk, coming back into the room deep enough to allow the door to close behind him. He had intentionally trapped himself for the sake of privacy- such was his respect and concern for Jazz. "How so?"

Jazz chose his words carefully. "Ah was looking for something ta test Prowl with. A memory that would... trigger something in him."

"Trigger?"

"Ah won't discuss that part," Jazz stated. He had already hurt Prowl; he would not do it again by betraying the secrets he kept for the tactician. "What matters is that Ah ended up seeing a part of him he didn't want meh ta see." And now all he could think about was what he had seen. What he had heard. What he had felt. The arch of Prowl's frame. The sound of his cries and moans. The heat of the fire raging inside him... both the passionate and fury-driven.

"He warned meh, but Ah didn't listen." He looked down at his hands. "Ah wanted ta push him ta make him stronger, but Ah hurt him instead."

The gentle scrape of the chair had Jazz looking up again, watching as Blackhawk sat down. The commander's expression was subtle mixture of understanding and sympathy. The mismatched colours of his optics glittered dimly.

"We always hurt the ones we care for," said the mech.

Jazz opened his mouthplates to give his retort, then found he did not have the words to refute such a statement. A strange feel rolled through him as he realized that he did care for Prowl. Cared that he had done something wrong to him. Cared that he had hurt the mech. Cared that Prowl was probably still hurting. He just didn't know what to do about it.

Blackhawk leaned forward. The sheath of his sword clicked against the back of the chair with the movement. "I am not too familiar with how students are trained in circuit-su, but I do know that in the mastery of diffusion a student is forced to face many difficulties in order to become a master."

"Ah know all about the slag a student gotta go through ta get somewhere," Jazz intoned darkly.

"Something tells me that you know better than most," Blackhawk said shrewdly. He placed his fingers on the edge of the desk; he didn't dare reach across to lay his hand above Jazz's. "Keep in mind that sometimes it is the master who discovers he still has things to learn." He leaned back again, putting a polite distance between the two of them. "If Prowl is half as smart as I believe him to be, he will have the presence of mind to know that you had the best of intentions for him. If he is to become improved, he will have to suffer first. We all do. And as for you..." His optics glinted coolly. "You did what you set out to do. You wanted a reaction and you got one, just not the one you were expecting."

No, certainly not the one Jazz had been expecting.

Blackhawk rose from his seat and brushed himself off. "I trust that you and Prowl will be able to work through this. In the meantime, please try to not brood so darkly on your own. You frighten the rest of us mere mortals when you do." Once again, he politely backed his way out of the room.

"That's it?" Jazz wondered, watching the other bot leave.

"That's all I dare to say," Blackhawk replied. He made it into the hall, standing just beyond the doorway. "If, by any chance, you are in the mood for company this evening, members of my division as well as myself will be meeting in Nebula One this evening. You'll have to bring your own chair and energon, but at least you will not be alone."

"Thanks for the offer, but-." He was cut off as communications channel beeped inside his head. "Give meh a moment." He opened the channel, receiving Blaster's voice in his head.

"_Got something interesting for ya," _said the microbot. _"There's a bot outside the compound gates saying she needs to speak with ya." _

"Ah didn't know assassins knocked nowadays," Jazz drawled.

"_Looks like nothing but a little Neutral," _Blaster informed. _"Green femme calling herself Moonracer. She says ya know her and that it's important." _

Jazz felt surprise race through him.

"_Just thought you might like ta know," _Blaster intoned.

"Keep her at the gates," Jazz said, bordering on an order. "Ah'll go see what she wants."

"_Well, alright then." _The channel cut out.

Jazz stood and made his way to the door. He opened his mouthplates to offer a few words to Blackhawk, only to find that the bot was already gone. Deciding it wasn't worth it to linger on the bot, Jazz pressed on without looking back. He cut his way through the halls and noted that more than a few curious optics turned his way, but there was not the usual sparkle of interest or veil of fear in their gaze. It was more like they were concerned.

Jazz walked faster and let their expressions blur together so he needn't see a single one clearly.

The air outside was cool and smelled of exhaust from the extensive training session the aerials were hosting above the compound. The sound of them cutting over the base at supersonic speeds mixed booming explosions of breaking the sound barrier with the screaming of their high-performance engines. It was all the familiar sounds one came to associate with living on an active base. There was an odd sense of comfort and continuity with how undisturbed average life continued to carry on. As Jazz came across the wide expanse of the main yard between the building he had been in at the front of the large base, the bots in the outposts that lined the gates came out. One or two waved to Jazz; Jazz did not wave back.

Powerglide circled overhead and then dipped down, transforming to land gracefully on top of the reinforced wall. He looked down at the Neutral on one side, then down to Jazz on the other. "You got some good looking company," announced the flier.

"Ah don't care what she looks like," Jazz called back. He didn't bother to wait for the gates to crack open. Instead, he walked into the gatehouse built into the wall and came out on the other side of the wall. Dogfight, who had been manning the gatehouse for a shift, was smart enough not to react to Jazz's sudden invasion. Making a fuss really wasn't worth the damage he was likely to receive for it.

Moonracer shot to her feet the moment the door to the gatehouse unlocked and opened. She brushed herself off quickly, which did little to fix her appearance. Jazz approached close enough to see her clearly, but not close enough to seem friendly. He didn't want to give her the wrong idea; he had no intention of being friendly. The spooked look she gave him as he approached was enough to say that she didn't expect him to be friendly either. In her mind, she still had not reconciled with the fact that Jazz, the monster she had bashed freely in that very monster's presence, had been the one to put himself at risk to save so many without so much as a thanks in return.

"Um..." said the femme, shifting from one foot to the other, keeping her gaze cast nervously to the ground. "Prowl-."

"Ya know that ain't what Ah'm called," Jazz said flatly.

Moonracer frowned. "I know, but-."

"Ah assume ya came here for a reason," Jazz drawled, curious to have his curiosity served and then have the femme on her way. "They said ya had something important ta tell meh."

"I do," Moonracer said, her frown scrunching up as she pursed her mouthplates. "I knew you were the only bot who might care..."

"_Really?"_ He found that hard to believe when she had only met him the one time, and he hadn't exactly been nice to anyone for the entire duration of that time... aside from rescuing them from torturous death, but that was beside the point. He didn't think he came across as a very 'caring' bot at all.

Moonracer sighed, her tired frame sagging even more heavily. "Please, I've been driving non-stop since I heard the news myself. Listen to what I have to say and you can decide how important it really is."

Jazz watched her closely, picking up every subtle nuance about her frame. He saw the dust and dirt caked heavily to her frame, meaning she had been travelling hard for several orns. Denting along her left side meant she had either had an accident on the uneven roads or had been attacked by Decepticons out in the wild lands. If it was the former, than she was a lousy driver. If the latter, then whatever she had to say must have been important for her to risk her life like she did. He saw the exhaustion in her optics, the way she held her frame so tiredly. He also saw determination in her optics, the same kind that had shone there on the orn he had rescued her from Shockwave's cages.

"Go on," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. He would give her time to speak her piece, but no more and no less. "Ah don't have all orn ta wait around on ya."

"Right, I know. You must be busy here doing... whatever it is you do for the Autobots," she stammered nervously, tripping over the words. She twisted her fingers in front of her. "I didn't know who else to come to... I know I never really said thank you for what you did... and I ran away when I found out who you really were-."

"Ah meant it when Ah said Ah don't have all orn," Jazz said.

She flinched. "Sorry." A deep drag of air sucked in through her vents. She straightened up as tall as she could go, accentuating the determination Jazz had seen shining in her gaze. "It's about the bot with the yellow optic."

Jazz snapped to attention.

Moonracer saw the sudden shift in the silver bot and was emboldened by it. "This group of bots just came in to our camp a couple of nights ago. They said they were trying to get as far away from the borderlands between Tyger Pax and Kaon as possible." She paused, clenching her hands tightly. "They said bots were disappearing from different areas around there. A bot with a strange yellow optic had been seen. The moment I heard, I knew I had to tell you."

"Ya came all this way ta tell me about a rumour?" Jazz wondered sceptically. "Cybertron's a big place. There's bound to be one or two bots around with a yellow optic."

"Bots have gone _missing,_" Moonracer insisted. "If the bot with the yellow optic is taking them for experiments again, then..." She cringed, still able to hear Bluestreak's screaming in her audios. She recharged with the curdling noise haunting her. "You're the only one who can do anything about it!"

Jazz arched an optic ridge. "The borderlands between Tyger Pax and Kaon are far from here." He said nothing more, interested to see what the femme would do.

Moonracer got a little more frantic, thinking that she was either losing Jazz's interest and that he would simply refuse to help out of his own personal fickleness, or he was growing tired of her presence and might decide to kill her like he had threatened so many times after her rescue.

"_Please,"_ she implored, clasping her hands in a prayer-like manner and bowing before Jazz like he truly deserved the gesture. "I know it is far away, but you truly are the only one who I think might help. No Autobots have been taken this time, only Neutrals, so the Autobots in the area won't help. They're too focused on trying to keep themselves alive without having to worry about some nobody-Neutrals."

"So Ah'll waste _mah_ time worrying?"

"You saved all of us when you didn't have to, didn't you?" she said, her desperate optics flashing up. "You have the skills to fight the bot with the yellow optic. I think you're the only one who can put a stop to him before he hurts anyone else."

Jazz watched her for several moments more, letting the femme panic under the scrutiny. In truth, a rumour of Shockwave's activities was more than he had gotten in a long time. Reviewing countless Autobot databases yielded little information of use to him. His lack of progress in the past orns had only compounded his frustration. Moonracer coming to him had been a stroke of pure luck. She gave him two things he needed; news on Shockwave and a reason to leave Iacon for an unspecified amount of time, hopefully long enough to get his thoughts in order before he faced Prowl again. It was yet to be decided if he would do anything for the possible captives Shockwave was currently keeping. The borderlands between Kaon and Tyger Pax were huge and far away; by the time Jazz got there, it was likely everyone would be either dead or so damaged that they would be beyond anyone's help.

"_Please_, Jazz," Moonracer begged quietly. "Please, I'm begging you. If you have any kind of spark in you, you'll go."

He looked to the side, revving quietly. "Stand up, will ya? Stop bowing like Ah'm some kind of Prime."

She eased upright cautiously. There was hope in her optics, distant but there.

"Ah'll go," Jazz announced as if it were some great burden for him to do so. He made no guarantees of rescue like the first time, but he would check the borderlands out. He could not pass up the opportunity of getting his hands on Shockwave.

Relief was evident in the small femme's expression. She obviously wanted to jump for joy, but didn't dare try it in front of him. She didn't want to irritate him, inadvertently causing him to change his mind about going.

"Thank you," she said, all but gushing the words. "Thank you, Jazz."

The dreaded words that he hated so much. _Thank you. Thank you. Thank you_. He scowled. "Don't thank meh yet. For all ya know, every Neutral could be dead by now."

"Yes, but you're going anyways. That means a lot," she replied. Not even such a dark warning could diminish the new found hope shining in the femme's optics. It was as if her fear for the monster known as Jazz had never existed in the first place. She took a couple steps forward, but then stumbled as her energy levels wavered. Jazz unthinkingly reached out and caught her by an arm. He hauled her onto her feet and made sure she was steady before stepping away quickly to pretend he had not just did what he had done.

"Sorry," Moonracer murmured. "I was in such a rush to get here, I haven't recharged much. I guess it's finally starting to take its toll..."

Jazz cast his gaze to the sky in exasperation. He knew the laws of merchants, having been one in some capacity throughout his life; something given needed something in return. Moonracer had given him Shockwave's possible whereabouts, so he couldn't send her away without recompense. Well, he _could _send her away with nothing, but that annoying conscience that had been gnawing on him like a fungus wouldn't let him. She needed to be compensated.

"Come on," he said brusquely, taking her by the wrist and dragging her toward the gatehouse before she could object.

Dogfight watched them pass through without comment. There was curiosity in his gaze though, which Jazz would have happily punched him for if he wasn't already occupied with handling a femme.

"Where are you taking me? Jazz, please, stop!" Moonracer exclaimed, tugging fruitlessly at the grip that held her. His hands were much stronger than hers and his fingers were like a vice.

They made it into the Iacon compound amidst more curious gazes.

Jazz bristled. "Powerglide!" he barked, summoning the flier from the top of the wall where he had remained sitting the whole time.

"Yeah?" Powerglide asked, swooping to the ground near them.

Jazz shoved Moonracer in the red minibot's direction. "Take her for some energon and give her a berth to recharge on. Tell Ratchet to look her over when he gets the chance- and tell him Ah said Ah wanted her looked at."

Powerglide looked down at the pretty green femme he now held in his charge. "Well, I..."

"Don't give meh excuses, just do it," Jazz ordered. "If ya see Blackhawk along the way, tell him he won't be seeing meh tonight."

"Oh?" the Autobot enquired dumbly.

"Ah'll be packing for a trip. Don't know when Ah'll be back," Jazz said, which caused Moonracer to smile beatifically despite her confusion and mild fright.

Unable to stand looking at her expression, Jazz turned away and marched for his quarters to gather what he needed.


	29. Chapter 29

Things are about to get very interesting for our favourite protagonists. Very, _very_ interesting. Two bots, one ship. You do the math. The future is very interesting indeed.

Major thanks to the reviewers of the last chapter: **VyxenSkye, White Aster, NightBlooming Orchid, Daklog73, CNightJoy, Peacewish, cmdrtekk, Faecat, femme4jack, Wind of the Dawn, A Lurker, Poiseninja, Optimus Bob, Got Buttermilk, Camfield, Pruhana, Fianna9, DemonSurfer, sarasblackcolt, quasarsmom, renegadewriter8, StarscreamII, smoking caramels, Psyche102, Sideslip, sparklespepper, Lady Katana4544, Phoebe Turner, Midnight Marquis, ChaosGarden, Uniasus, Luinrina**, and **RococoSpade**~! As always, you guys never cease to be a source of inspiration for this story! So long as there are people willing to leave a review, there will always be a will to write this story~ =P

Read, Review, and Enjoy~

**Chapter 29**

Prowl was reluctant to cease his work when there came a distracting knock at his office door. The sound was soft but insistent, indicative of a smaller fist belonging to a lighter-built frame. Femme, most likely. There was a pause after the knocking as whoever was on the other side waited to be invited in. Prowl did not offer an invitation. Indeed, he refused to say anything at all. He was not in the mood to accommodate anyone.

A moment passed where the bot on the other side accepted the refusal. Shortly after that, the knocking resumed. It was too insistent to be someone who was likely to go away if he ignored them. The only logical course of action was to answer the door in order to cease the annoyance. The sooner he saw to his unwanted company, the sooner he could send them away. He would blessedly be left in peace again.

To better prepare himself for the encounter, the tactician scanned for a spark resonance. Immediately afterwards, he shot to his feet.

"Elita One, please, come in," he said quickly.

The door opened and the Prime's mate stood silhouetted in the door frame until she stepped in and let it close behind her. She was a stunningly beautiful creature, though that physical observation meant little to Prowl. Aesthetics held very little meaning to him. Her marked abilities as a commander were the qualities he admired most about her. When he had first began to rise through the ranks, he had been dismissive of the idea of Elita One as the commander of the Femme Division. It was his erroneous assumption that she had come by her position simply through her connection to the Prime. Upon coming into personal contact with the femme, Prowl had been forced to reevaluate his early suppositions about her. She was exceedingly smart, with a quicksilver mind and an utterly shrewd commanding style, perfect for controlling the radical nature of the femmes she commanded. There was no better candidate in Prowl's mind than Elita One for femme commander.

"Prowl," she said lightly.

"Elita One," Prowl murmured, bowing to her as social conduct would dictate.

She offered a bow in return, though not as deep as his.

An intense wave of shame washed over Prowl as he rose from his bow. He did his best to clamp down on the rampant emotion before the femme commander had the chance to see his expression. He should have scanned for the spark resonance first! Of all the bots to come to his office, it had to be the sparkmate of the Prime. He could dismiss all others, even those of similar rank to him, but Elita... Elita One was second to only the Prime. It was shameful to have been so disrespectful to her, even in such an indirect manner.

"How may I be of assistance, Elita One?" the tactician murmured quietly, his fingers clenching the edge of his desk lightly. He kept his gaze downcast from her; they might have held the same commanding rank in the Autobots, but she was still leagues above him in the social hierarchy. The dictates of his old Security Response programming were so hard to dismiss.

Elita One quirked an optic ridge, her head tilting gently to the side as she considered his question.

For a moment, Prowl dreaded what the femme might want.

"I am looking for your evaluation of the tactical information on the Axiom Nexus Decepticon outposts that my division submitted to you," said the femme. "I am interested in your opinions on the matter. The Head Tactical Adviser in the Axiom Nexus Autobot outpost is reputable, and his evaluation offered insightful information, but I do value your input."

"Oh," said Prowl, physically able to feel relief flood through his frame. So she wasn't here to discuss his most recent behaviour and his abject avoidance of a certain silver saboteur. He cleared his vents and immediately switched to his computer screen and keyboard. "Yes, of course. Please, give me a moment and I will have it for you."

"Of course," said the femme.

Being such an organized bot, he had her evaluation brought up in under a breem. It was downloaded to a data pad in less time than that. He politely came to his feet in order to hand it over to her.

"My apologies that it is late," he said, dipping his head respectfully.

"Not at all. I was early coming to retrieve it," Elita One replied in an amiable tone, though her optics were occupied with perusing through the data she now had in her hands. When she was done, she looked up at him and smiled. "I knew you would have it done ahead of time."

"Of course," said the tactician. He glanced to the door, willing the femme to leave. "If that is all, Elita One...?"

The smile on her faceplate turned sharp around the edges, the cleverness in her calculating optics gleaming too brightly. "No, I am afraid that's not all," she said. "It was only my excuse for getting in the door."

"Ah," said Prowl, and then pressed his mouthplates together to prevent himself from saying anything more. The words that did come to mind in that moment were certainly not appropriate to be said in front of the Prime's sparkmate. His frame tensed, as if readying for battle. His mind raced with a thousand different lies and excuses that he could weave in order to explain his recent rash of antisocial behaviour as he staunchly attempted to exempt all contact with living personnel.

"I'm sure you can guess why I am here," said the femme.

Prowl frowned, giving one bare twitch of his head that could have been a nod. "I can extrapolate a fairly succinct idea for your presence."

"You have such a way with words," Elita clucked lightly. "Especially when you try to make it seem like nothing is wrong and only end up making it more obvious."

Prowl frowned even more deeply.

Elita tapped her data pad against the tip of her chin. "In this case, your fairly succinct idea would be wrong. I'm not here about your recent behaviour, as curious as it might be."

Prowl was taken aback by the statement. He continued to stand behind his desk, watching the femme warily.

The femme commander tilted her chin up. "I'm not your sparkling-sitter, nor is any other commander in this base. We shouldn't have to look after you in any capacity." She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "The ways in which you choose to express your personal frustrations are your own choice. So long as it does not distract you from your duties, I have little care how much abuse you decide to inflict-"

"I have done no such thing," Prowl countered quickly. "I have kept up with all my prescribed duties as a commander, and I do not believe I have stepped out of line with anyone in regards to my behaviour-"

Elita raised her hand to silence him, and Prowl had no choice but to be silenced.

"I almost think you refuse to read between the lines purposely," she admonished. "You have not stepped out of bounds by any guidelines set for the Autobots, but you certainly have not bothered to go above and beyond them either. You have been toeing the line to the absolute limit."

Prowl said nothing to refute the statement.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I believe the phrase use most often in reference to yourself as of late would be '_cold-sparked fragger_'- a title that is usually reserved only for Mirage."

"Ah," he breathed quietly. Although he might not be as deeply entangled into the social life of Iacon, but even he knew that popular opinion of Mirage's frosty attitude was not very high.

"I can't say that any of the commanders are very impressed with this development," Elita said. "Normally you manage keep public opinion of yourself above Mirage's, if only by a fraction. Of course, I say this as an observation, because I am still not your sparkling-sitter."

Prowl revved lowly. He took a moment to review his most recent behaviour to see if he had grounds to give a proper defence of himself. Unfortunately, in seeing himself in hindsight, he was forced to agree with her assessment; granted he was not the most generous or friendly of bots, his most recent behaviour could be considered abominable compared to the progress he had been making in social graces. He cast his gaze to the floor to show his shame in being called out on his poor conduct. It was unbecoming of a high-ranking individual to allow his personal grievances to affect his orn-to-orn performance. Even Mirage's general behaviour, as glacial as it might be, was never inflected by his personal circumstances- he was just naturally an aft.

"I will endeavour to correct this misunderstanding," Prowl murmured lowly.

"See that you do," Elita said, watching him closely. "As for failing to see to your duties, I was not referring to the ones you have so wholly invested yourself in as of late. In fact, I am of the opinion that you should hold back a little bit on those, since you tend to make the rest of us look bad when you are several orns ahead of us in the workload. There are _other_ duties that have been neglected as of late."

Prowl stared at her blankly, choosing to purposely not read between the lines. It was a feeble and illogical hope that if he seemed ignorant of the matter, Elita One would dismiss it. Nevertheless, he continued to stare blankly.

Elita sighed and shook her head. Needlessly, she said, "I am referring to your partnership with Jazz."

Although Prowl had anticipated the words, he suffered an immediate emotional reaction to hearing the words spoken out loud. Confirmation that he had reason to dread with encounter with the Prime's sparkmate. The wave that struck him came on too quickly for him to properly suppress right away. Elita One was briefly privy to the play of horror, panic, rage, and shame that came into his. She was not as skilled as Jazz at reading bots with a single glance, but she had some talents that allowed her to see what many would have missed. She saw those uncontrolled emotions wreaking havoc inside a bot who was ill-equipped to handle them.

A pang of sympathy manifested in Elita One for Prowl as she realized the extent of the internal battle he was privately waging. However, she was not going to offer him a comforting hand to ease the torment. That would have been an insult to such a bot's pride. Instead, she held steady and retained faith in Prowl's own strength.

It took longer than normal for Prowl to compose himself properly. No matter how loathe his was to think of Jazz at the moment, he was even more abhorrent of the idea of falling back into his old practice of relying on shutting down his emotional centre. Even in the past couple of orns, he had resisted his old habit, no matter how poorly he was holding up under the strain.

"I do not wish to speak of him," he said when he was sure that he had control of himself.

"That is unfortunate, because it was my impression that he was your responsibility for the time being until he has taken on the mantle of an Autobot or chosen to go his own way," Elita pointed out.

"He is fine without my supervision for now," Prowl said through gritted mouthplates.

"Is he?" she wondered with a severely arched optic ridge.

"You and I can both agree he is a highly capable bot," Prowl replied. "He does not need me sparkling-sitting him, nor do I wish to be in his company as of this moment."

"I wonder why that is, hmm?" Elita said rhetorically, though with a sharp look.

Prowl opened his mouthplates a fraction, but said nothing. He knew of nearly a dozen reasons he did not want to see Jazz, though the prominent reason was his own pride could not handle it. For joors, he had analyzed and agonized over the incident. He had run every possible scenario to see how it might have turned out differently. In the end, he came to the conclusion that it was his own fault for what had happened. Jazz had done nothing but instigated the training session. Prowl had failed to compartmentalize the emotions that had hit him. He had failed to prevent himself from becoming a fool in front of Jazz. He had revealed one of his most closely kept secrets and shames- perhaps not as dire as his EMO condition, though a precursor to it. To add to the humiliation, he had reacted poorly in the aftermath of it. His anger and embarrassment had thrown blame for his own failings squarely at Jazz's feet. Things were said that he regretted.

Now his pride prevented him from seeing the saboteur.

"I see you have nothing to say," she observed.

"There is nothing I want to say," Prowl replied curtly.

The look that Elita One drilled into him was far more severe than anything he had ever seen on her faceplate before. It was not cruel, but the set of her optics, the turn of her mouthplates, and the tilt of her chin all culminated into an expression that caused Prowl's optics to immediately go to the floor while his head bowed away. There was no question who was the more powerful bot in the room. She could see straight through all of Prowl's petty acts and juvenile retention of pride and did not take lightly to him acting so far below his expected maturity level. Although she could be kind and fair, much like her sparkmate, Elita One differed from Optimus Prime in the fact that she was far less inclined to be lenient when someone was acting unreasonably foolish.

What became particularly disquieting in that moment was that Elita turned her gaze away from him at the last second.

"Perhaps your current sentiments are for the best," she said.

There was a moment of supreme confusion as Prowl's processor failed to calculate an appropriate reasoning behind such a statement. While he could suspect that she was aware of the rift between the two of them, and that she was smart enough to come to her own conclusions about the 'disagreement' that set that rift in motion, he could not fathom how she could so quickly dismiss it. Had she not been criticizing him on the neglect of his duties only moments before?

"I beg your pardon?" he managed to say around his incomprehension.

"I said that perhaps your desire not to see Jazz is for the best," Elita repeated. "Since you have been locked away in your office for such a long time, I doubt it has come to your notice that Jazz is leaving."

Of course, no matter Prowl's tumultuous regard of Jazz, information such as this brought every process inside the tactician's mind to a screeching halt.

"He's leaving?" Prowl questioned on a quick gasp. He immediately berated himself for such a slip. It betrayed more intonation than he had meant. Damn himself for not being able to dissemble better! He caught himself now leaning subtly across the top of his desk, his gaze searching the femme commander's for any hint. He searched her whole frame for any sign of scheme or lie.

There was only cool elegance about her, though a kind that was far above the quality of Mirage's cold lordly manners. Far above the quality of any other bot Prowl knew of.

"Yes, he's leaving. I was informed of this last night," Elita said, inclining her head. "Jazz has apparently received word from one of the Neutrals he had rescued in the borderlands several fortnight ago. Shockwave is now possibly active in another borderland."

A frigid coldness seeped into Prowl's frame at the mentioning of Shockwave's designation.

Elita continued, oblivious to the sudden fear the tactician was experiencing. "Jazz has seen it fit to act on this rumour and is leaving within the joor. The borderlands between Tyger Pax and Kaon are far from here, not to mention how vast the gorges between the territories can be. He will undoubtedly be gone for a long time."

Prowl felt his world shift as his mind, which had screeched to that sudden halt when he had first heard the news, started moving again. Now his thoughts flew into a thousand new scenarios. Each possible future was worse than the last, each inviting one disaster after another to meet Jazz if he left on his own.

A plain grey hand grasped the edge of his desk tightly for support.

"How is he leaving?" Prowl asked, nearly croaking the words. "He can't be driving, can he?"

Driving the whole way had the lowest probability of surviving.

"A ship has been granted to him," Elita replied smoothly. "Supplies have also been spared."

His optics flashed. "So quickly?"

Elita's optics glinted with a light that Prowl did not dare analyze too deeply. "You know better than anyone that Jazz has unique ways of getting what he wants."

Prowl shuttered his optics tightly. "I suppose I do," he conceded lowly. "Has he... has he said if he will be returning after his mission?"

After the words he had thrown in Jazz's faceplate, it wasn't likely for a bot like him to stick around.

"He has not."

"Damn." One hand released his desk, only to bang his fist to the top of it.

In a sudden move, Elita cast Prowl a smile that was more calculating than affectionate. "I think it's time for me to go. Thank you for the report, Prowl. I am sure it will help with many important future decisions." With that said, she abruptly quit his office and was gone from the tactician's company entirely.

Prowl stood for several moments after Elita had left, processing everything that she had just said. He was indeed reading between the lines now and did not like the conclusions he was coming to.

Although Prowl did not know where she was going, Elita One was in fact heading to the med bay where one light-green Neutral was currently sitting under Ratchet's scrutinizing stare. Through the usual manner of rumours and hearsay, the femme commander happened to hear that the Neutral femme had a good disposition and some interesting talents.

Elita One was sure that Jazz had done her a favour by luring a peculiar femme into her midst who she was confident she might be able to convince to join her division.

She thought it only fair that she give him something in return to keep him company during his mission.

* * *

Jazz felt an itching beneath his armour as he oversaw the loading of precious supplies into the small aircraft he had been granted. It was not the itch of rust. Rust was not permitted to exist on his person. This was an itch that he was most familiar with, one that was associated with the way his life had always been before everything had changed. It was the restlessness that had lived within him always. The urge to move. To be elsewhere. There was eagerness inside him laced with impatience. He wanted to be away from the place he was in now. He wished for the freedom of the open sky and endless roads.

The ship that had been lent to him would give him that freedom, just as soon as it was loaded. It would take him anywhere he wished to go. The sky was the limit.

He did not even have to go to the borderlands if he didn't want to. He could go _anywhere_.

Jazz had pondered that very thought all night- the thought of _anywhere_. There had been many parts of himself that had hissed and jeered and laughed and coaxed that Jazz could find much more interesting things to do than entertain the possibly groundless fears of a worthless Neutral. There were places on Cybertron he could go. Things he could do. Free from everything and everyone. Be his own bot, bowing to no one; every intention he had possessed but failed to fulfil like he had once planned that first time he had Iacon not so long ago...

Or had it really been a long time ago when he had left?

So much had happened between then and now that it almost seemed like an eternity had passed.

Jazz shrugged at the vagueness of time. He was accustomed to such a thing. Not only had he lived such a long time, but he remembered so little of it; when one lived in such a whirlwind of a fashion, temporal details became meaningless. Indeed, time had always been a very fickle companion to him; both constant and yet wavering. He could be patient when he needed to be and impatient when he wanted to be. A moment was capable of lasting a lifetime, while a lifetime could be wasted in a moment. He had seen and lived both scenarios.

Although, with that mindset, he could either live his freedom for a lifetime or else squander it.

In the end, he also knew it didn't really matter.

It didn't matter if his mind whispered all sorts of pretty things things to him; all the possibilities he could have on the planet and beyond. All the places he could go. All the things he could do. Not matter how much he wanted to be away, away, _far away_ from this place... he'd still come back. He would go out to check out Moonracer's rumour. He knew he would. He might try to fool himself into thinking otherwise, but he would still go. He might even end up being an idiot and saving the Neutrals there. And then he knew he would come back to Iacon.

He would come back because there was nowhere else for him to be.

He staunchly avoided thoughts of Prowl in a similar manner to which he had been physically avoiding Prowl's presence. Generally, when a thought did creep in, all he heard in his head was "_Ah, yes! Touch me more, Prowl!" _and other explicit exclamations with more than a few accompanying visuals from the memory... as well as a few images of Prowl which had been amalgamated by his own mind. Rather attractive images, if he did say so himself. Normally, a little bit of sick fantasizing was nothing to fret about, but the manner in which he had scored his current fantasies left a sore spot within him- roughly around the spot where his spark was uncomfortably sitting.

"Meep! Meep!" cried a useless little drone that skittered around Jazz's feet in dizzying circles. He had never met a stranger drone than Wheeljack's favoured creation. He lifted his feet to let the little streak of silver continue on its path toward its proper master. Wheeljack laughed too loudly and cooed for his drone, inviting Tungsten to crawl up his frame and skitter into the large open cavity of the ship's engine for one final check before Jazz flew away on his mission.

As usual, Wheeljack was merrily oblivious to the scrutinizing regard of his fellow Autobots. He also notably ignored Jazz's incredulous glances. He was content to be himself no matter how unusual that tended to be. There was a sort of freedom about his naive disregard of everyone's opinion that was enviable.

Larger drones, plainly built but capable of useful tasks, moved back and forth in a mindless fashion as they loaded supplies into the small cargo hold in the side of the ship. The supplies that had been spared for Jazz were not as plentiful as he might have liked, and not as much as he would have taken for himself if he had not bothered with permission to leave, but he knew Iacon was stretched thin as it was and he didn't feel like putting more pressure on them. It was... _strange_ regarding others in this manner. Considering their needs above his own.

Concern for others was the reason good bots got killed. They were better off only caring for themselves.

Jazz focused his optics and thoughts on the progress of the drones, noting with irritation that they were not stacking the supplies efficiently in the hold. The top was too heavy and at an angle to the rest of the crates. He watched the top layer begin to slide outward as gravity inevitably took hold. He shot forward to catch the crates, but a storm-grey shape slid between Jazz and the ship, smoothly catching the supplies before they managed to fall completely. In one smooth motion, Prowl knelt to free his arms of the supplies he had caught. With a brusque gesture to the drones, he dismissed them in order to start taking the crates out of the hold and reorganize them in a more efficient manner.

Jazz watched Prowl's movement for several moments, stunned to find the tactician standing there in front of him when both of them had been doing so well to avoid each other. When the saboteur finally summoned up proper words to speak, they were not as smooth as he would have liked.

"What are ya doing here?"

Prowl went stiff for a moment, as if he had been hoping Jazz would ignore his presence and not comment on it at all. His hands paused in their movement of shifting crates around. He cycled air through his vents. Without looking back, he returned to reorganizing.

"I was informed by Elita One that you were leaving for the Tyger Pax-Kaon borderlands," said the tactician in a decidedly careful manner. Obviously it was taking effort for him to remain civil in Jazz's presence. He did not want to be there, and yet he forced himself to persevere for some reason that Jazz could not fathom.

Prowl nodded to the ship. "Needless to say, this scene here would indicate her information was correct."

"Elita One needs to start minding her own business," replied Jazz, making a mental note to himself that when he returned from the mission he would finally, _finally_, hunt the femme down and find out what her Primus-damned malfunction was. He stepped up beside Prowl, refraining from casting his partner a sidelong glance. He wasn't sure how deeply he wanted to look into the bot's thoughts after what he had already seen.

"Knowing Ah'm leaving has nothing ta do with ya needing ta be here," the silver bot pointed out.

"I am coming with you," Prowl replied curtly. He, too, refused to look directly at Jazz.

This reluctance on both their parts to look in each other's direction made for an extremely awkward atmosphere between them. Not that _awkward _was new between them, but it certainly had a cumulative effect. They were standing together and yet acting as if galaxies apart. For two individuals who were so accustomed to subterfuge and manipulations, the sheer reluctance between them and the amount of words going unsaid was unusually uncomfortable.

"Go back ta your office, Prowler," Jazz said lowly, though not cruelly. There was more resignation in his tone than anything. "This isn't your mission. It's mine."

"We are partners," said the storm-grey bot, like a drone parroting orders. There was very little investment behind his assertion of partnership, which made the worse as worthless as exhaust fumes.

Jazz snorted a low noise. "Ah don't need ya."

"You _do_ need me," insisted the tactician, this time with a fraction more investment.

The saboteur cursed at him softly.

Prowl did not balk. "The borderlands are far from here. Two bots flying this ship will be more efficient than one. I will be able to liaison between Autobot outposts we stop to refuel at, because no doubt you will cause a stir. You are not yet an Autobot, after all. And of course, in the event that you do encounter Shockwave, it would be best for you to have backup."

All very good reasons spoken in a convincingly reasonable tone.

Jazz did not want to hear any of it.

"You're blowing smoke out your exhaust pipe," he said, interrupting Prowl's recitation of the rapidly accumulated reasons he had come up with while on his way down to the hangar.

Prowl was accordingly silenced, even if he did continue to sort through the supplies. He stacked the largest crates on the bottom, working his way to smaller, lighter crates on the top. Energon cubes were set to the floor, reserved to be placed inside the ship in one of the sub-space compartments where they could easily be accessed by the bots who would be using them.

"Ah've gotten along in life long enough without ya. Ah can go out wherever Ah please without ya." He dared a sidelong glance. "Ah don't need ya. End of story."

"I beg to differ."

"A couple of orns ago, ya were begging for a whole other reason," Jazz countered. It was a low blow, and he felt bad for sinking to that level, but he wanted Prowl gone.

The tactician immediately went rigid. Unfortunately, he did not leave. "Your innuendos won't scare me away," he said tightly.

"Fine, if you're going to be that way. Look at it this way," Jazz intoned, trying a different tact. "Ah'll be gone for a while, so ya won't have ta deal with meh at all. No one is gonna be in your head seeing things they ain't supposed ta see. Ya can train on your own and when Ah get back, ya can show meh how much you've improved."

Primus, did that really sound as lame to Prowl as it did to Jazz? Because to Jazz, it sounded _really_ lame.

The tactician finally deigned to cast his company a look, his expression consisting of a distinct lack expression. It was enough to inform the saboteur that, yes, the words that had just come out of his mouthplates really had sounded _that_ stupid.

Prowl motioned for the drones to return, issuing careful orders to them so that they did not upset the system he had already developed for their supplies. He allowed the machines to continue on with the work while he himself picked up the cubes of energon off the floor and indicated for Jazz to do the same. Jazz tried not to look too curious while he picked up several cubes and balanced them in his arms. Together, they walked up the small set of collapsible steps that led into the ship. There was no ramp, given that it was such a small low-profile aircraft.

Once partially concealed within the small single room that constituted the back of the ship, Prowl set down his cubes and sighed. Now he allowed his facade to drop. What was revealed was a shamed expression laced with anxiety. Self-criticism and honest releuctance to stand in Jazz's presence. But there was determination there, like there usually was- that stubborn kind of determination that Jazz could relate to.

"I made a mistake, Jazz," the storm-grey said, not in a loud voice but in a particularly clear one.

Jazz set down his own cubes and propped his hip against the nearest surface to listen. He wanted to say that he had made a mistake as well, but pride prevented him from opening his mouthplates. His damned pride, which had kept him locked in his office and prevented him from facing Prowl head on before now. His pride, which had him leaving Iacon before he conceding to bow to his own mistakes.

Pride oddly sounded like cowardice... a comparison that Jazz did not at all enjoy.

Nevertheless, pride was Jazz's ever-present company, so instead of saying the right words he said, "What mistake was that?"

Prowl cast his gaze to the floor. His doorwings drooped perceptibly. "We had made an agreement to use my memories as training tools. The memory you selected... I had not anticipated _that_ specific one, but I should have fought harder against its use."

"Probably would have done ya no good," Jazz shrugged. There was still a part of him that was a terrible creature, and the stronger Prowl would have resisted him, the more Jazz would have wanted to use the memory no matter what it might have contained.

"I calculated that that might have been the case. No matter how hard I resisted, you would still win," Prowl admitted, but there wasn't bitterness in his tone... at least not directed toward Jazz. He was angry at himself for being so weak. "I thought that if I gave in, maybe... maybe I could have handled the memory. I was wrong. I had not realized how much influence such intense sensations could exert when magnified..."

Jazz was struck yet again by an unbidden image conjured freely by his mind. He recalled the decadent image of Prowl stretched out in front of him, his expression turned wild and lost. His long frame arched in abandon, so alive that it seemed like little electric sparks could fly off of him at any moment. The sound of his voice as he called out in passion-drenched tones.

Prowl sighed, scrubbing a hand over his tired faceplate. "What I am trying to say is that I overreacted in the aftermath. I was humiliated and angry, which, as you know, only would have been blown out of proportion... The way I conducted myself was unbecoming." He paused, pressing his mouthplates together in a tight line. "The way I have been conducting myself over the past few days has been unacceptable."

The saboteur made an noncommittal noise that was supposed to indicate that he might have noticed _something_ unusual in the tactician's behaviour.

"I apologize," Prowl said. "You have invested this much time in my training, and yet I threw it in your faceplate. For that, I am sorry."

Jazz looked to the side. A part of him didn't want to hear Prowl apologize. "Don't worry about it, Prowler. Ah think we both still have things to learn about this whole 'training' arrangement. Ah'm still making it up as Ah go, too."

"Right."

They watched each other carefully, though there still existed between them a distinct atmosphere of tension. Unless one of them went into the other's head and erased every memory of what had happened, the discomfort of it would continue to linger for some time.

"Knock! Knock!" Wheeljack announced cheerfully as he stuck his head into the small room, managing to thoroughly startle the bots within. With a laugh, he looked back and forth between them. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, Prowl was just leaving," Jazz said smoothly.

"I was not," Prowl replied, all traces of any emotion erased from his features.

Jazz sent a glare in the tactician's direction.

Wheeljack rubbed the back of his neck, the crystal projections on the sides of his head flickering with his nervous laughter. He might have been a purposely obviously bot, but even he couldn't help but see what was right in front of his optics. There was certainly something going on between Prowl and Jazz.

"Well, okay, have it whatever ways you want," said the engineer. "I'm just poking in to say that everything checks out in the engines. There shouldn't be any trouble while you're out over the wild lands."

"So Ah can leave any time?" Jazz asked.

"You can go right now if you want," Wheeljack said.

"Good."

Sensing that he was expected to leave right that moment, Wheeljack ducked out of the hatchway and whistled for Tungsten the drone. Together, they wandered out of the hangar to return to their lair beneath Iacon. There were a couple of projects that the engineer wanted to start working on again. Plus, it had been too long since something had blown up for no reason. He had a personal quota to fill.

The moment the mech was gone, Jazz faced Prowl again.

"Ah accept your apology and all that slag, but get out. Now. Ya ain't coming with meh and that's final."

Prowl might have been able to come to terms with himself like a good little logical Autobot but Jazz still operated by his own rules. He didn't give a damn about being proper or polite or considerate. At least, not to Prowl. Not in that moment. Maybe later, when he got back from his mission with Shockwave's severed head tucked under his arm. Yeah, something like that was bound to make him feel loads better about violating Prowl in a way he didn't mean to.

Prowl's gaze instantly sharpened from self-pity to his normally piercing stare. "Perhaps you are unclear about the parameters of a partnership?"

"Nah, Ah know them, Ah'm just ignoring them right now." He pointed to the open hatch. "Get out."

"You have already admitted that you think Shockwave is more powerful than you are. At the very least, he has more resources at his disposal," Prowl said. "What logic is there in sending yourself on a possibly suicidal mission?"

Jazz pointed to himself. "_Hello._ Me? Logic? Play that sentence over again in your head and see how much sense it makes."

Prowl stared at him flatly, devoid of humour. "You will need backup. You will need someone who can fight by your side."

"Ah've already told ya that you're not the kind of backup Ah need," Jazz countered. "If Ah wanted bots ta fight with, Ah would have called the twins. But you? Ya can't even handle the memory of an overload. You're not strong enough yet ta come with meh. Physically, Ah know you're capable, but mentally... not yet."

Prowl's optics flashed with a glare. "Think of this as an opportunity to train me in the field."

"Too dangerous. Ah'm not risking my aft in the middle of nowhere just so ya can prove yourself." Jazz curled his mouthplates back like a sneer. "Anything ya might see from Shockwave will be worse than what Ah could make ya see inside your head."

"I will handle it," Prowl said.

"Like ya handled yourself with meh?" Jazz snorted derisively.

"As much as I hate to admit this, but I am rather accustomed to seeing the worst of what war can do to a bot," Prowl said, crossing his arms over his chest. His damned stubbornness radiated off of him. "I will be able to handle whatever horrors Shockwave might have in his labs."

"Not likely," Jazz muttered darkly. Even he had a sense of unease about what he might find in Shockwave's labs. Not just finding someone else mentally devastated like Bluestreak, but _other_ things. Things that he had read about in the reports he had stolen. Shockwave did the kinds of experiments that were never meant to see the light of orn.

"I cannot consciously allow you to go by yourself."

The saboteur smirked. "Ah could knock ya unconscious and then ya wouldn't have a choice."

Prowl pursed his mouthplates. "Jazz, as hard as this might be for you, please be reasonable. No matter our current disagreements, no matter our reluctance to be in each other's company, we are still partners. We still hold obligations to each other. Undeniably, our talents are better suited together than apart."

Jazz scowled. "Ya have other obligations, don't ya? Ones that are more important than meh. What about them? Ya don't know how long we'll be gone. What will happen to your division?"

"I was gone for 97 orns as a prisoner of war and my division did not implode," Prowl replied. "I am already ahead of my work. Smokescreen has agreed to substitute as commander for the length of time that I will be gone. He is an adequate replacement for me on a temporary basis."

"Thought this all out, didn't ya?" Jazz observed dryly. He already knew that for every argument he might make, Prowl had devised the perfect counterargument. They could go in circles all orn.

"In the length of time it took me to walk from my office to here, yes, I thought this all out," Prowl replied, arching an optic ridge as if insulted that Jazz could think any less of him. "May I also point out that it took a lot to swallow my pride before I was able to show my faceplate here. I deserve to be commended for the effort."

This time Jazz actually did laugh, albeit quietly so no one outside the ship heard. "Ah imagine it was a bitter experience."

"It was," Prowl replied evenly. "However, it's best I swallow my pride now rather than have someone hurt because of it later." He looked Jazz in the optic as he spoke, making it clear that he had no intention of allowing Jazz to come to any form of harm.

Jazz turned his back on the tactician, moving to the open hatchway to peer out of it. A few curious bots cast their optics in the small ship's direction, trying to discern what was going on. A sharp look from Jazz discouraged them. He used his extra astroseconds of observing the hangar to be able to think. He still itched to escape Iacon, that had not changed within the last few breems. He wanted his freedom and he wanted his revenge on Shockwave. Bluestreak still deserved to be avenged for the crimes committed against him.

However, now that Prowl was here, with an apology no less for something that was not his fault... that mostly absolved Jazz of his mistake of using Evasia against him, didn't it? They could move on from this point, continuing to exist as they had for... as long as Jazz had known Prowl. He didn't have to apologize for his own folly. Didn't have to feel bad about it. He used to be so good at not feeling bad about anything!

One glance over his shoulder revealed Prowl patiently awaiting his decision. There was a coolness in the storm-grey mech's gaze that said if Jazz refused, Prowl would simply find away to follow him regardless. He was still in possession of the tracer Jazz had given him, so he had the ability of following Jazz to the ends of Cybertron if he so chose. If he wanted to be reasonable about this whole situation, than there was very little sense to argue with the tactician. _But,_ that did not mean that Jazz wasn't going to lay some ground rules. Shockwave was still his prey to take down.

"If Ah let ya come, you're gonna have ta let meh do things mah way," Jazz intoned.

"Within reason," Prowl mediated.

Jazz arched an optic ridge.

Prowl mirrored the gesture, offering an elaboration: "I won't let you slaughter for no reason."

"Alright, fine, Ah'll make sure Ah have reasons for killing." Though whether or not they would be _good_ reasons would be debatable. "But if you come with meh, ya gotta accept that not all of mah methods are Autobot-friendly." He was willing to do whatever it took to get what he wanted and no matter how he felt for Prowl, he would not let the tactician get in his way.

Prowl revved lowly, weighing all of his options. Finally, he said, "I can accept that. You are not an Autobot, therefore you are currently exempt from the rules of engagement dictated by this faction." There was a pause, and then he added, "But do not expect me to violate my own codes of conduct. I will not kill indiscriminately."

"That ain't your style," Jazz intoned offhandedly.

"No, it isn't."

Jazz pushed away from the hatchway, moving toward Prowl. He raised a hand to lay it to the tactician's shoulder, only to pause when he noticed the other bot's subtle cringe. Prowl may have been able to overcome his pride to be able to be there, but he had not yet totally accepted what he had allowed Jazz to see. Jazz withdrew his hand before making contact.

"Fine, ya can come," said the saboteur, albeit in a very reluctant manner.

"You won't regret this," Prowl assured.

"Ah already do," Jazz sighed.


	30. Chapter 30

Have you ever had to sit in a small enclosed space for long periods of time with someone you refused to talk to, and neither of you wanted to be the person who spoke first? Yeah... multiply that by ten and then read this chapter. But hey, no one can stay awkward forever, right? _Yeah... _Also, if anyone does not recall the designations of Prowl's fellow officers who came online with him, you may want to brush up, or else be surprised. ^_^

Secondly, please don't make me regret posting this chapter. I was thinking of waiting a couple of months until I had this whole story arc written out, because I thought that would be really awesome to have it all done. You know, like super mega uber awesome- and _totally_ not nerdy at all! But then I figured it would be many months to get it all written out, since it will be a fair few chapters at least... So then I ended up debating with myself for a couple of days over what the best course of action might be. And then I lost the debate to myself. It doesn't happen often. I usually win. Anyways, I just hope that by posting this chapter now instead of some time in December or January, that you kindly readers might show your love (like most of you usually do =P ) by dropping a line and maybe mentioning what you might have liked about the chapter? I certainly take your comments into consideration for future endeavours. ^_^

So, yeah... /end pathetic announcement.

As always, I wish to thank the reviewers of the last chapter for their wonderful words of praise and encouragement: **Katea-Nui, DemonSurfer, Fianna9, renegadewriter8, Peacewish, Elita One, White Aster, quasarsmom, Faecat, VyxenSkye, Daklog73, kathy3meme, femme4jack, Darkeyes17, Got Buttermilk, Wind of the Dawn, phoebe turner, CNightJoy, Uniasus, Nightblooming Orchid, smoking caramels, Psyche102, JenEvan, RococoSpade, Poiseninja, StarscreamII, Anonymous Reviewer, ChaosGarden, RamenNoodlesXD, Sideslip, Jessie07, theshadowcat, I See You Sleeping**, **Optimus Bob, and Midnight Marquis**! As many of you know, this story absolutely could not be written without your reviews. You are my inspiration and encourage to keep pressing on. So, thank you so much for being so generous~

Read, Review, and Enjoy~

**Chapter 30 **

Take off from Iacon was rather uneventful, as far as take offs went.

Jazz and Prowl both took point in the small ship, sitting up front in the two (and only) seats. So close were they, one could easily reach out and smack the other with the back of their hand, not that either of them were tempted with the idea. The engines started up without issue, just as Wheeljack had predicted. Anti-gravity thrusters warmed up and rattled as the ship lifted from the floor, its landing struts tucking up underneath it.

Seeing as their mission was a rather stealthy one, there was very little formality or outward ceremony about the departure of the Head Tactical Adviser of Iacon base and his partner, Jazz, who didn't need a fancy title to be intimidating. The only thing that happened was they hovered in the air for several moments, staring out the open hangar doors which gave them a view of the large courtyards, the reinforced compound walls, and the grey-and-rust expanse of wild lands beyond. That moment was then succeeded by the moment that Jazz engaged the thrusters. The engine revved, sudden momentum pressing the two passengers back into their seats as the sky opened up to greet them.

Only a few Autobots waved after them. Others stared in confusion, still under the impression that Jazz and Prowl were supposed to be feuding. Only a small group of bots prayed both came back alive.

Within the first joor of their flight, a silent vote had been held between the two bots aboard. It was decided that neither of them would speak unless absolutely necessary. Which suited both of them just fine. Neither of them had much to say, anyways. Really. It was still too soon for either of them to feel completely comfortable with the other. They were not reduced to the original animosity of their original meeting in Straxis, but rather an awkwardness borne of the unfamiliarity of being so familiar, compounded by the revelation of how intimately they knew each other. Both bots were a breed of emotionally stunted creatures alienated from intimate relationships for various reasons, so they were unaccustomed and reluctant to recognize how truly _close_ they had managed to become. It was only in the new vacuum created between them in the absence of comfortable companionship that they acknowledged that something had been between them in the first place.

Of course, since they happened to have that convenient agreement of silence, no one was going to start talking about their feelings.

Even if there wasn't a silent agreement, they weren't likely to start talking about their feelings.

If they didn't talk about it long enough, maybe the problem would go away.

In the meantime, Jazz did the majority of the flying. He was an adequate pilot and had flown many different models of ships in his lifetime, from the smallest kind of merchant ship to the largest form of deep space vessel. Usually this had been done illegally, seeing as Jazz had never once applied for a proper pilot's license. Or had an actual flying lesson. Or actually owned the ships he was flying. On the bright side, Jazz had plenty of practice flying. He knew all the shortcuts and all the best jet streams to fly into for quicker travel.

Jazz's job was made even easier by the simple nature of the planet's geography. Even though the landscape was so vastly scarred as to be unrecognizable, he had a basic idea of where he was going. Go south until he crossed the borderland gorge between Iacon and Simfur, and then head east over Simfur to cross over into Centaurie Tetrax, and then Tyger Pax, and finally he would come to the borderlands between Tyger Pax and Kaon.

This might seem like an oversimplification of Cybertron's geography, but it really wasn't. The entire planet was divided in such a way that one would have to be completely stupid to get lost. Cybertron was divided between the northern and southern hemispheres, and then each half of the planet was divided again into six equal sections on each hemisphere to form the twelve territories. All territories held the exact same triangular shape, and no territory held more land mass than any other. So long as a bot knew north from south and east from west, as well as having the endurance to cross such vast tracts of land, it was nearly impossible not to know how to get from one territory to another.

Prowl kept himself busy during this time. Just because they weren't speaking did not mean that he would allow himself to be idle. He had several data pads to keep him busy, all of them balanced precariously around him. Many of them were there simply to house the many possible scenarios that Prowl's battle computer was coming up with. Another couple of data pads contained all of the information that Jazz had shared with the Autobots in regards to Shockwave, which was woefully inadequate compared to what Jazz preferred to keep to himself. Whenever there was a lull in the furious pace of tactical analysis inside Prowl's head, he consulted the Shockwave data pads, compared it to what he already had, and then went off again calculating and recalculating their statistics.

A few times, Jazz reached over and snagged one of the data pads to flick through it. He did not offer any opinions of the scenarios he read. However, his expressions did change subtly depending on what he was reading and whether or not he agreed with it. Once he even snorted in apparent humour, although the scenario he happened to be reviewing turned out to be a rather dark one involving their imprisonment and subsequent torture.

Accordingly, Prowl interpreted the saboteur's various expressions with his usual shrewd calculations. When he received the data pads back after Jazz was done with them, he adjusted the scenarios to include Jazz's own unspoken opinions of them.

Together, they carried on in such a manner for three whole orns. Jazz flew. Prowl plotted.

At night, they found an open hole in the ground which originally would have been meant for large merchant ships to sink into in order to reach the lower levels of Cybertron for distribution of products. Infrastructure on Cybertron was largely compromised at this point, so Jazz and Prowl did not go too far down. Having an entire level collapse on their heads would not bode for their mission. However, there was always the chance attack, be it from Decepticons, mercenaries, or desperate Neutral bandits. Generally, this meant that they landed their ship in a moderately concealed area one or two levels below the surface.

It was only at night that they took out cubes of energon to refuel. They refrained from doing so throughout the orn as to conserve what limited supplies they had. They sipped silently and did not quite looking at each other. When they recharged, they did so in shifts, one always in recharge while the other stayed alert. This was for twofold reasons- one being that having at least one of them online would be safer for them both. The second reason was that the single room in the back of the ship was not very big. Should the two of them decide to lay back there for recharge, it would involve them laying intimately close, and neither were inclined to do so. Prowl still suffered under his own perceived inadequacies and preferred not to be subjected to laying next to the bot who continually managed to point them out. Jazz merely kept seeing Prowl's frame and mind lost in passion and he was becoming increasingly disconcerted with the frequency of the images coming to him.

It seemed that they were doomed to continue on this way all the way to their destination, which could take several more orns to reach.

Crossing the territories was no small task when the only ship available to them was designed for stealth rather than speed. The spies and scouts of Iacon's Intelligence & Espionage division used it without incident to travel around within Iacon on their various missions, but usually no father than that. A better ship would be supplied for inter-territorial travel, generally one whose engines had a little more _oomph_. Since Jazz's mission had come on such short notice and he had been extremely keen to leave as soon as possible, their only option left them in their current predicament. It would be several orns before they got to the borderlands, and probably several more before they found Shockwave's lair- if he was even there at all.

In the meantime, no one wanted to be the bot who cracked first, so both sets of mouthplates stayed firmly glued together.

Luckily, fate intervened in the same way it usually intervened in the lives of all bots, doing so in such an insidiously innocuous fashion as to be not noticed at all unless one were truly looking for it.

It was nearing dusk on their third orn of travel and their ship, which was technically designated I-COM 7 but affectionately called _Putter-Poof_ in honour of the curious 'putter-poof' noise the ship made when setting down, had finally had enough flying for the orn. It was not used to such intensive flying for such long periods at speeds Jazz was currently insisting upon. The engines were getting overheated, while a persistent rattle began in the back near the aft thruster region. In protest to such abuse, _Putter-Poof_ started to lose altitude in a way that insisted upon landing soon or else the ship would take them all down, and there would be no getting back up again.

"Damn," Jazz cursed lightly as he finally gave into the ship's demands for a rest.

Prowl levered out of his seat and peered out across the barren landscape below them. They were no longer in Iacon, which was obvious by the remains of the architecture around them. Instead of taking a direct route south into Simfur's territory and then heading east into Centaurie Tetrax, they had flown diagonally, which had allowed them to pass over the four-point borderland where the territories of Iacon, Crystal City, Simfur, and Centaurie Tetrax meet. It had been a rather impressive sight at mid-orn to fly over the massive gorge that separated them. Looking down into it, it seemed as if the chasm could go on forever. Now they were flying over the outer provinces of Centaurie Tetrax, where the bright murals had faded and the colourful domes that topped the buildings were smashed.

"Over there," said Prowl, pointing to the large opening in the ground which appeared as a black hole.

Jazz nodded, immediately turning the ship in the direction of the tunnel. It was several times larger than their tiny ship, its awning grandeur never ceasing to make the two bots feel small in comparison. The darkening sky drew distant as they sank downward, and then disappeared all together as Jazz took a left and drove into the vast expanse of an abandoned docking lot for merchant ships. Even only four levels down, it was darker than dark in the lot. Not a flicker of ambient light anywhere. They scanned the area for any spark signatures, relieved to find that there were none. At the far end, there were warehouses where material goods would have once been stored before going out for distribution; now they were dilapidated, with sagging walls and smashed windows. Jazz set down amongst them, trusting that the buildings would be enough cover if someone came poking around.

To further protect themselves, they engaged the dampening fields which hid their spark signatures. The ship had its own cloaking technology which hid it from sensors. Sadly, that did not stop it from making the usual sorts of noises a ship did when bemoaning its heated engines and stressed bulkheads. It putter-poofed a few times as remaining exhaust puffed out, then groaned as it settled on its landing struts. The sound of cooling metal moaning created a haunting echo across the empty docking lot.

Jazz took his hands away from the controls and sat back with a tight look. "Ah should have insisted on a better ship."

It was the first full sentence he had bothered with in three orns, so Prowl was a little surprised to hear the saboteur's voice after such extended silence. He was surprised to hear that it was a little rough with disuse, and the gravelly tone now lacing the saboteur's normally deep, smooth voice nearly caused him to shiver. Any reaction at all was violently suppressed. He would not subject himself to such humiliation again. He would control himself accordingly.

He cleared his own vents before saying, "It was the best ship available at the time." His own voice was likewise gravelled from disuse, however the effect was less noticeable against the original timbre of his voice, which was less handsome than Jazz's.

Nevertheless, Jazz shivered subtly.

Prowl noticed.

Jazz glanced over briefly and made a noncommittal noise in return.

Deciding that it was rather illogical to continue on with his facade, while simultaneously concluding that he had been foolish for doing so for three orns straight in the first place, Prowl turned to Jazz and looked him head on. Jazz sighed, his shoulders sagging as he came to the same conclusion. His chair swivelled so that they both could look at each other. Should it have been a surprise that they both looked so normal? After so many joors of sitting next to each other and yet refusing to give into each others pride, they had somehow created a strange vision of the other in their heads which amounted to some kind of impossible obstacle. Now they _saw_ each other and realized that their earlier follies seemed extremely stupid.

Recognition of their shared intimacy, on the other hand... Let's not ask for miracles.

Jazz looked Prowl up and down, from the tips of his vividly red chevron to the dark metal of his feet. Yes, he still got the impression of Prowl writhing on his back like a wanton pleasure bot. He was quite sure he would never forget such a sight. However, with the presence of time filling up the space between then and now to dull the novelty, as well as the looming threat of their mission growing more prominent in his mind, Jazz could finally _see_ Prowl clearly again. The plainness of his frame contrasted by the intriguing beauty of a mind so endlessly complicated even as it sought order. His open earnestness to be Jazz's partner and help him matched by the personal strain self-inflicted on him by his damning pride and exhausting self-deprecation.

Prowl did not need to look Jazz up and down, since he had long since memorized the saboteur's frame. It was a finely tuned machine of handsome contours and deadly power. He exuded the same hauntingly dangerous physical attraction that a known poison dissolved in expensive high-grade radiated. In that moment, Prowl consciously purged himself of his prior reservations and invested himself in seeing Jazz as his equal rather than the bot who had seen the side of himself which shamed him the most. Jazz was an intensely different bot from the one he had once been; even if Jazz was reluctant to admit anything, Prowl could see behind that stretch of crystalline visor into the concerns in the saboteur's gaze. A steady calmness had seeped into the eye of the storm in which Jazz's whole world was based upon. It was a place that Prowl acknowledged he had a place within.

Once again, they accepted that they were equals. As well as equally stupid. They could not be allowed to be better or less than the other if their mission was to be a success. At the very least, they had to accept their differences if they meant to stay alive through the ordeal.

"Ah guess we still have a lot ta learn, huh?" Jazz intoned quietly.

"We do," Prowl agreed. A ghost of a smile appeared on his mouthplates, relieved that the tension was now mostly gone between them. Mostly.

Jazz nodded, adding his own small smirk into the mix.

Around them, _Putter-Poof_ gave an incredibly long groan as its cooling armour slowly shrunk as its temperature dropped. It was mostly dark outside the front view screen, but what light was cast outside illuminated the radiating heat waves coming from the engine.

Jazz suddenly rose from his seat. The cockpit was so exceedingly small that with him standing, his knees brushed Prowl's, and his frame loomed over the tactician's.

"Ah'm gonna open the front hatch ta give the engine some air," he announced. "It wouldn't do us any good ta have the stupid thing blow up just because Ah gave it a little work out."

Prowl leaned back so that Jazz was not invading his personal space as much. "Wheeljack said it should be fine."

The saboteur cast him a flat stare. "If ya haven't noticed, Wheeljack is more nuts than bolts. He deserves his Head Engineer position, he's brilliant an' all, but the bot laughs every time he gets electrocuted." He leaned down to Prowl, once again invading personal space. "Plus he talks ta drones. Even Ah was never _that_ crazy."

"I suppose a certain amount of insanity must accompany brilliance," Prowl conceded with dry humour.

"It explains why you're just a little bit crazy," Jazz teased, the words slipping out so comfortably as if they had never been feuding in the first place.

"And why you are a lot of crazy," Prowl countered in a surprisingly easy manner.

This time, unexpected laughter fell freely from their mouthplates. Light, easy noise that surprised them both by the comfortable quality of it. It caused them to be acutely aware of how physically close they had suddenly become. All it would have taken was for Prowl to lean in for his forehead to brush against Jazz's. But something like that was far too soon for either of them. Indeed, the acknowledgement of such a thought was too much. The tactician cleared his vents while the saboteur pushed away from the chair so that he stood straight again.

"Alright, well, Ah'm gonna go air out the engine," the silver mech announced.

"I think I will take first shift patrolling the area," Prowl replied.

"It's not night yet," Jazz pointed out, waiting for the hatch to open.

"No, but it would still be wise to patrol. We cannot risk being caught off guard now," Prowl replied, rising from his seat and following Jazz out. "As soon as you are done with airing out the engine, go back inside and recharge. I will wake you at midnight to switch."

"Ah'll wait until ya get back," Jazz said, disappearing out the hatch. He didn't even bother using the steps. Instead, he jumped to the ground without absolutely knowing what he would land on. From outside, he said, "We can crack open some energon together."

"I'd like that." Prowl made his way out, momentarily disoriented by the change from the lighted interior of the cockpit to the murky darkness of the docking lot. He missed a step on the way down. Jazz quickly extended a hand to steady Prowl before he could fall. The reason he could jump into the darkness, the reason he was so comfortable with it, was because it was inextricably a part of him. Prowl had darkness inside him, but it certainly was not the same kind as Jazz, and it grated against his conscience, rather than the acceptance Jazz offered it.

"Thank you," said the tactician, extracting his hand from the saboteur's.

Jazz smirked and shook his head. "What would ya do without meh?"

"Fall," Prowl replied, and then he paused. "But I seem to do that with you here as well."

The silver mech made a small murmuring laugh. "We all fall down, Prowler."

"True." He wasn't sure if their exchange was meant to be humorous, literal, or a metaphor for something he wasn't yet ready to grasp.

Jazz wasn't sure either. He tipped Prowl a nod before turning to shadow as he wandered out of the range of light spilling out the open hatch. The lights along the hull remained off to keep their ship as inconspicuous as possible. If Jazz needed light to see by, he had lights on his frame he could use while overseeing _Putter-Poof_'s engine.

Prowl watched his partner even after he could no longer be seen, and then shook his head. He stretched in order to work out the stiffness that had fallen into his joints from sitting all orn. Once comfortable again, he transformed and took off into the darkness. He was, of course, a tactician by function, but that did not mean he could not be an adequate scout when necessary. Since they had already scanned the area before setting down, it was not necessary to go very far for the perimeter check. A shallow loop would do, and then Prowl would return to the ship and sit outside with Jazz to enjoy a cube of energon. Perhaps they would attempt a decent conversation, which they had been sorely lacking in the last couple of orns.

Taking into the unknown, Prowl did his best to compartmentalize all his frivolous thoughts. Any kind of distraction could get himself killed while out in the wild lands like this. One never knew what could be lurking.

The drive itself was a jarring one, owing to the derelict state of _everything_. If there was a place that Prowl's headlights illuminated, it was a place better left to the dark. The whole of the docking lot and all surrounding roads were deeply cracked, and in some places upheaval had created gigantic protrusions arcing up from the ground composed of metal and rust. The fence that might have once surrounded the lot was now a tangled mess. In one place, a dead frame was entangled in the metal net, shot to death if the holes piercing through it were any indication. The corpse still had a look of fear on its faceplate. Buildings which once would have been thriving were now collapsing. There was no light. No life.

Prowl could admit that he had once run a probability scenario for the end of the world, and what he drove through bore a haunting resemblance to that terrifying possibility.

Briefly, he thought he picked up a spark signature. It was only for a split astrosecond; slow enough to register its existence, but too fast to be able to rightly identify who it might be, if it was someone Prowl knew at all. Given that he was in an outer province of Centaurie Tetrax, it was highly unlikely to find an acquaintance out here, indicating that it might be an enemy. When he stopped to scan again, the blip on his scanners was gone.

Just a sensor ghost, then? It happened from time to time, when certain frequencies in the air got caught together and reverberated between metal, mimicking spark signatures. Some frequencies even clashed together to create disjointed messages that could get caught up in a bot's communications hub. Prowl was aware of reports were bots became delusional enough to believe that these sensor ghosts were _real_ ghosts. Messages from beyond by ones they once loved. The concept was ridiculous to Prowl. He decided to err on the side of caution, not dismissing the sensor ghost as a mere anomaly but as a possible enemy lurking around.

Starting up again on the rest of his shallow patrol, Prowl moved much more slowly and scanned the area more deeply. He did not want to miss anything. He would not tolerate any mistakes.

Driving around a bend in the road, he spotted a collapsed support pillar fallen against the side of a building. The ground of the level above was fallen inward, exposing a sliver of distant sky peeking through the crisscross of crumbling transport ways of the levels above. Night had fallen, the sky cast over in a diamond-studded blanket of black velvet. Only dim silvery light given off by the stars filtered down through the hole, illuminating the lonely starkness of the fallen pillar.

Prowl did not appreciate the lonely beauty of the sight, but rather calculated the danger that a fallen support pillar posed to Jazz and himself. If the integrity of the vicinity was compromised, then he would head back to the ship and insist they leave immediately. Upon closer inspection, which involved driving directly into the pool of starlight, Prowl determined that the pillar had only been an auxiliary pillar, which was really just part of the architectural redundancies of Cybertron to ensure that if a main support pillar collapsed, it would not allow a whole level to cave in. The loss of an auxiliary pillar was statistically less cause for concern.

Determining it not to be a danger, Prowl resumed his bipedal mode and placed his hands against the massive artifact. By comparison, he was tiny. The metal was cold like ice, but also dry and scratchy with rust and abuse. Against his palms, faded flakes of paint chipped off. The bright colours Centaurie Tetrax had once been famous for were now nothing but a faded relic slowly flaking away. Staring up the length of the impressive column, Prowl was struck by the sudden urge to go to the very top. The column laid at such an angle that he could very easily walk up it. He would have a very interesting vantage point from up there.

It would also make him an easy target to anyone who might be hidden in the debris.

Before his processor could even come to a decision over which option held the highest percentage of benefit over risk, he felt the press of a gun muzzle to the back of his neck.

"Hands. Let's see them," ordered the unknown bot, whose spark signature was disguised by an imperfect dampener. There was a disturbance on scanners, but not wholly a signature that could give away his identity. Prowl noted that he was dealing with someone with a Simfurite accent like his own...far too similar to his own, actually.

With perfect calmness that betrayed nothing, the tactician raised his hands.

His unknown assailant made a pitying noise. "You have got to be some kind of special stupid to be standing around like some target waiting to be shot. It's like you _wanted_ me to catch you."

"Perhaps that is exactly what I had planned," Prowl replied evenly.

"Don't see why you'd want that." The gun prodded the back of Prowl's neck ominously. "I could blow your head off right now."

"If you did that, there would be some serious consequences," the tactician pointed out.

"For you maybe, being minus a head and all. I think I could get away before anyone found out." The bot pressed closer. "I like my chances. How about you?"

The tactician sighed expansively, done with the game. He had analyzed the speech patterns and was now one hundred percent certain of who he was speaking with. "Hunter, I know you know it's me."

There came a pause, and then a disappointed curse. "Damn. Just had to ruin the game, didn't you? I was really get into that bad bot vibe."

"I don't enjoy having a gun pointed at the back of my head."

"It wasn't even charged," huffed the other Autobot. The gun was taken away, safely holstered at Hunter's side.

Prowl turned around to face the bot who some might consider his brother, although Prowl preferred to think of him as just Hunter, a bot he was connected to by circumstances of his creation. Since they had last seen each other, which was several vorns ago, Hunter had reformatted. At one time, Prowl and Hunter would have looked exactly alike except for the colour of their chevrons- red and orange, respectively. Now Hunter sported a taller frame boasting of a broad chest, strong features, thick armour, and a certain ruggedness that some might find attractive. His paint was a burnt orange colour somewhere between rust and plain brown, which would serve as perfect camouflage against the rusting landscape of Cybertron. Notably, Hunter still sported his orange chevron.

"Look at you, Prowl," Hunter exclaimed warmly, grasping Prowl by the upper arms and holding him an arm's length away to get a good look at him. As hinted by the affection in his tone, Hunter was inclined to think of Prowl like family rather than as a work colleague. "You haven't changed a bit."

"You _have_ changed," Prowl observed neutrally.

"A necessary evil," the other bot laughed, flashing a handsome smile. "I switched over to Intelligence & Espionage. Didn't Smokescreen tell you?"

Prowl blinked in surprise. "No."

"No? Well, he should have told you," Hunter huffed.

"We don't talk very often, aside from work matters," Prowl admitted, and suddenly he felt very ashamed for it. Smokescreen often invited him to share an evening in a rec room to chat, but Prowl usually turned him down for one reason or another. Perhaps one of those invites had been to inform Prowl about Hunter?

"Right, figured that was the case. You're still so focused on your work," Hunter said, almost like an admonishment but not quite. "Oh well, doesn't matter. It's just a transfer and a reformat- nothing too important. I figured I needed a little change, and to be honest they sorely needed someone who knew what they were doing. Reformatting was part of the deal."

Prowl nodded, accepting that Hunter had always been very restless as a tactician for Simfur's Security Response. He preferred to be out on the streets where the action was, not sitting at the precinct doing statistics. Scouting was arguably the best function for him, combining his need to do something with his considerable skills of discerning the smallest details around him. In that respect, he was very much like Smokescreen. They also shared their amiable dispositions that allowed them to make quick friends and lure colleagues to their berths for some fun. Two qualities that Prowl utterly lacked.

"Tactical division is poorer for your choice," Prowl said with a slight inclination of his head.

"Yeah, well, the Autobots in general are fine. It's not like I switched sides or anything," Hunter shrugged. It might have been a dig at Kingpin, the only one of their five who had gone over to the Decepticons. Hunter arched his optic ridges at Prowl. "How did you know it was me?"

"I caught a very brief spark signature when I first set out," said Prowl. "I couldn't identify anyone from it, but I knew someone was out here. The moment you spoke, though..." He inclined his head. "The voice is different, but your speech patterns are the same."

"You are still too smart for your own good," Hunter laughed.

"It is not the first time I have heard that," Prowl replied mildly. "I assume you knew it was me the moment you saw me?" Even if the average Cybertronian did not have very good visual recognition skills without their spark resonance scanners, which would have been useless in identifying Prowl seeing as he his resonance was currently disguised, Hunter was tactically trained and an ex-Security officer. Like Prowl, his visual recognition skills were acute.

"When you first landed with that ship of yours, you set off all sorts of sector alerts. That docking yard is popular with all sorts of bots looking to crash for the night. I was the closest in the area, so my outpost dispatched me to check it out." Hunter shrugged nonchalantly. "I heard you bumping around on the roads, and the moment I saw you... well, like I said, you haven't changed a bit. Right down to that damned chevron of yours."

"I see you retained your chevron despite changing," Prowl pointed out defensively.

Hunter traced the orange crest decorating the top of his forehead. "It has sentimental value. Come on, admit it, if you ever reformatted, you would keep your chevron too. You wouldn't feel like yourself without it. Even Smokey kept his."

An orange elbow nudged him repeatedly, prompting Prowl to roll his optics. "I have no intention of reformatting any time soon, therefore it is frivolous to suppose what I might or might not do under that circumstance."

It was Hunter's turn to roll his optics. "Yep, you really, _really_ haven't changed. I don't know if I should laugh or cry."

"Neither. The unchanged nature of my lacking social graces is nothing to get emotional over," Prowl said...and then was hit with the irony of the statement. He very nearly cringed and laughed at the same time, yet he was so accustomed to the last few orns of tight lock down on everything he felt that he easily reprimanded the errant urges. He remained outwardly indifferent.

"I think you almost made a funny," Hunter observed, proudly clapping his brother on the shoulder. When the clapping was done, the hand stayed where it was on Prowl's shoulder. The ex-tactician's optics were bright in the very dim light; he had handsome blue optics. Blue that was rich and shone warmly, unlike the pale glow of Prowl's ice-coloured optics. Hunter did not bother to disguise his excitement to have come across a fellow Simfurite officer in the middle of nowhere. His further delight at coming across one of his brothers so unexpectedly. There was intention lurking in that too-open gaze of his. Prowl recalled that Hunter had a habit for extended physical contact; he liked touching hands, nudging others, sitting too close, and...

There was swift movement as strong burnt orange arms enveloped Prowl in a tight embrace.

Prowl stood there awkwardly for several astroseconds, unable to recall the last time he had been embraced like this. He raised one arm and patted his so-called brother on the back. Pat. Pat. Pat. And then he let his arm drop, waiting to be freed. He waited. And waited. ...and waited.

"Please stop hugging me," he sighed. "This isn't the time. We're out in the open and I am supposed to be running a perimeter check."

"Yeah, sure. Give me a second." Hunter dragged in a deep breath of cool air, continuing to hold Prowl for several more moments before reluctantly releasing the smaller bot. "There, I feel better. It's been vorns since we've seen each other. Something like that deserves a hug."

"If you say so," Prowl murmured, stepping away and brushing himself off.

Hunter shrugged, so accustomed to Prowl's behaviour that he didn't even bother to be offended by the less than enthusiastic reactions. What was family for, if not to love even the most emotionally crippled member? "Alright, no more hugs. You got some explaining to do."

"Oh?" Dark optic ridges arched, throwing shadows around pale optics.

Hunter gestured to the vast gloom of the dead city around them. "What the pit are you doing all the way out here? If you haven't noticed, this is the middle of nowhere."

"That's classified."

Such an answer did not satisfy the scout, who merely raised both his optic ridges and stared Prowl down in the same manner he had stared down Decepticon prisoners in for interrogation. "Did you lose your command position in Tactical? Because I've been hearing some things, you know? Intelligence & Espionage tosses gossip around, and..."

"Of course not!" Prowl frowned deeply. "I am still the Head Tactical Adviser. My position in the Autobots has not changed."

Relief was evident in the scout. "_Thank Primus_. I know how much the position means to you. But if not that, then what...?"

Now the storm-grey mech pursed his mouthplates in a stubborn line. "I told you, it's classified. I'm not being obtuse, I swear. It's a sensitive mission and I don't want to compromise it."

Hunter smirked a little, playful mischief too similar to Smokescreen's shining in his optics. "You know, those rumours I get to hear so much about? They talk _a lot_ about you and Jazz. All about that 'classified business' you might be doing behind closed doors..."

Prowl tensed, sensing that something was coming.

Hunter gestured vaguely in the air. "I also recall hearing from Smokescreen not too long ago, something about sadomasochistic tendencies..."

"I will kill him," Prowl stated. Smokescreen might have been his second in command, and in some sense of the word they might have been considered brothers, but that certainly would not prevent Prowl from taking his revenge out on the other tactician. Preferably painfully. Maybe he'd even ask for Jazz's help.

"Ah, but it is _true,_ my emotionally repressed little brother? That's what I'm interested in," Hunter wondered, still with that gleam in his optics. "I'm going to hazard a guess here... You didn't come out here alone. Jazz came in on the ship you were flying. You two are... _eloping_, yes? Looking for a quiet place to get down and dirty without the whole world looking into your naughty little secrets."

Prowl revved, though the sound was little more than an irritated growl. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"_Immensely. _I forgot how much fun it was to tease you,_"_ Hunter replied with a warm laugh, which he followed with another warm pat to Prowl's shoulders. "So? Are you going to break that silly classified label for me, the brother you've neglected to talk to for vorns, or do I have to keep guessing? With all the slag Smokescreen's been telling me, I can keep this up all night."

"It's not a silly label," Prowl pointed out stubbornly. "There is very good reason why something is categorized as classified. You should know very well the importance of sensitive data." He frowned at the orange mech, who had yet to look completely convinced that Prowl was not eloping with Jazz in a dirty, nasty fashion involving chains, whips, and someone calling someone 'Master.'

Pretending he had heard nothing of the tactician's reasons, Hunter tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Let's see, let's see, what are some of the other things Smokescreen has been telling me...? You know, aside from the fiery nature of your violently intimate encounters. Hmmm, was it that you two are now more than partners? Intimate exclusives, yes?" He grinned. "Ah, I bet I know why you're out here! You two are sparkbonding, aren't you!"

Prowl literally found himself choking. In horror. Bent over with one hand braced against the fallen pillar while Hunter laughed at him just as much as he was trying to help with the choking. True, he was supposed to have iron-strong vice lock on his emotions, but the idea, the mere concept, of sparkbonding with Jazz... That was enough to haunt for the rest of his life in a way that torture never could. When the shock-horror response was finally brought under control, he straightened up in order to send Hunter a black glare.

"You are **not** funny," he stated tightly.

"True. I'm _hilarious_," Hunter chuckled.

Prowl snorted derisively. "Never mind, Hunter. It was... nice to see you again, but I really must be getting back to my ship. Please pretend that you never saw me. Discretion is of the utmost importance." He stepped around the other bot and began to walk away. He only stopped when he heard the echo of footsteps following behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he arched an optic ridge. "Do you not understand the nature of a dismissal?"

"Sure I do," Hunter replied cheerfully. "Do I care? No. I'll follow you right back to your ship if I have to."

"You don't have to," Prowl stated flatly.

Hunter snorted. "You can't just walk away after only a couple breems of seeing each other. That's not how normal bots do things. You don't even have to tell me why you're out here, just give me a little time to catch up with you."

To this, Prowl sighed. Out here in the wild lands, his authority as a commander meant very little. There was nothing he could do to enforce an order for Hunter to return to his scouting duties. "Very well, you may come along. We have lingered out here too long."

The scout cast his gaze out into the many shadows. "Aside from your ship landing, there hasn't been any noticeable activity in the area. We're lucky on that front."

"That does not mean there hasn't been activity that has gone _un_noticed," Prowl pointed out. "I don't like the idea of the two of us attracting attention if there are unwanted optics out there. It is best to leave now."

"Lead the way," Hunter said, content to fall into step next to Prowl. Together they transformed and left the caved in area, abandoning the soft starlight for the harsh reality of darkness the city had to offer. Hunter had a much better understanding of the safe paths to take through the collapsed city, so at some points during their drive he took the lead without question. Luckily, Prowl had not travelled far from the ship so their drive was not a long one. No errant spark signatures appeared on their scanners for the trip back.

Upon rounding the corner of one of the crumbling warehouses surrounding _Putter-Poof_, Prowl slowed down and resumed his bipedal mode. Hunter did the same. Their greeting from Jazz was not what they were expecting... Or perhaps they _should_ have been expecting exactly what came for them. Without warning, a blast of super-charged plasma lit up the gloom as it travelled over Hunter's right shoulder, searing the paint as it went. It impacted on the wall behind them, pelting both bots with a sharp spray of debris.

"Warning shot," Jazz announced. "Give meh a reason not ta aim a little ta the left."

Prowl quickly stepped in front of Hunter, calculating that the saboteur would be less inclined to shoot him rather than the seeming intruder. This was yet another mistake he had carelessly overlooked; bringing Hunter to the ship would look like Prowl had been overpowered and now forced to lead his captor wherever. He should have called ahead to alert the saboteur to company coming.

"Jazz, don't shoot," Prowl said. "I brought him here. He's not an enemy."

"I'm Autobot," Hunter announced. With no sudden movements, he removed his dampening field- which was an external device unlike the configurations Prowl and Jazz used. Both his spark resonance and faction modulator were readable for a few moments before Hunter reengaged the dampening field.

There was hesitation on Jazz's part. Only a single light, set to its dimmest setting, glowed on the hull of the ship, back-lighting Jazz's silhouette to create a rather intimidating vision. His visor shone ominously like a demon's blank stare. He took his sweet time deciding whether or not Prowl was telling the truth. Finally, the dim glow of the muzzle of the blaster disappeared.

"Took ya long enough ta get back," said the saboteur. "Ah was wondering if ya got lost or attacked." His gaze switched to Hunter, and there was no denying the brutal suspicion in his stare despite being guarded by his visor. "Didn't expect company, though."

"I am sorry I worried you," Prowl replied, stepping to the side to reveal Hunter once again. They walked deeper into the small circle of light cast by the hull light so that Jazz could see them both in better detail. "The reason I took so long was because I ran in to an old acquaintance of mine. Jazz, this is Hunter. We worked together in Simfur."

Hunter cast him a flat stare. Again, not offended by Prowl's words, but not exactly impressed by his demotion to _acquaintance _either.

Jazz inclined his head to the newcomer. The designation sounded familiar. "Prowl mentioned you once," he said. "You came online with him... Second of five, right?"

"Yes, I am." Hunter looked surprised by the sudden address, especially to be called out by something as intimate as his call number from his original group. Doubly surprised to hear that it had been Prowl to mention it. As quickly as he could, he replaced his open surprise with a neutrally friendly look. He could not be called a stupid mech, and he was perfectly aware of how dangerous Jazz was. He would not leave himself vulnerable if he could help it.

"Strange to meet someone like you so conveniently out here," Jazz drawled. Notably, he did not put away his blaster. Instead, he kept it hanging at his side in definite warning for no funny business.

"Not at all," Hunter assured. "I'm currently stationed at an outpost near here. I was sent to check out the disturbance you caused when you landed. Imagine my surprise when I ran into Prowl."

"Ah," Jazz said quietly, still staring with a slight frown.

Prowl cleared his vents, summoning Jazz's attention back to him. "I couldn't just send him away," he explained. "We have not seen each other in a very long time. He will not be here for long, but I thought this would be a good chance to... catch up?"

It would have been a much more convincing lie if he had not ended it with a question.

Jazz snorted and finally turned his back to them. "Whatever." He made his way over to two dark lumps set on the ground. A third lump, smaller than the first two, sat in the middle with two cubes of energon on top. Prowl realized that Jazz must have dragged out piles of wreckage from the warehouses to make two makeshift chairs and a low table for them. The saboteur settled down on one of the 'chairs' and cracked the seal on his energon, still watching the pair as he drank, waiting to see what they would do.

Hunter glanced at Prowl, picking up on the definite tension on the air. "I'll stand."

"I'll go get a cube for you," Prowl said, leaving his brother to procure said cube.

That left Hunter alone with Jazz. Sufficed to say, each mech was as curious and suspicious as the other. To better facilitate the mutual interrogation that was about to happen, Hunter moved to stand behind the seat meant for Prowl.

"I've heard a lot about you," he said.

"No doubt," Jazz replied. "Ah'm kind of famous."

"_In_famous is more like it," Hunter countered. "Although, you've been getting quite the reputation among the Autobots now. Smokescreen tells me you've been an asset to both Tactical and Special Ops in Iacon."

"Ah'm an asset wherever Ah go," Jazz said with a sharp smirk. "Ah like ta spread the love and joy."

"Sure you do," the scout said evenly. "And about all that love and joy you've been spreading...?"

"Your brother an' Ah are partners. Nothing more," was the reply. The words were so sharp that the finality of the statement was unmistakeable.

"Just making sure," Hunter said, relaxing now that he knew for sure. Prowl was a big bot capable of making his own decisions, but that did not stop bots like him and Smokescreen from worrying. They remembered the bot he had been when Evasia was alive, and they had been forced to watch who he became after her death. Seeing something like that happen again would be too much.

In that moment, Prowl reappeared with the cube meant for Hunter. He pressed it into the other bot's hands, and then went about arranging his seat so that he could see both Jazz and Hunter comfortably. He sensed the mild tension between the two, but concluded that it was the natural tension any Autobot initially had when encountering someone like Jazz.

"So," intoned Hunter. "Are the two of you enjoying your little love nest out here?"

Prowl yet again choked, and this time it was on his energon.

Jazz proved to be a little more entertained by such humour. "Ah can't tell ya yet," he replied, expertly covering up whatever suspicions he still harboured. "Come back tomorrow morning after we've had a chance ta test it proper and Ah'll give ya all the dirty details."

"Sounds naughty," Hunter said with arched optic ridges.

"It will be," Jazz assured, sending an arched look in Prowl's direction.

Prowl was still hacking up the energon that had managed to go down the wrong tube.

"Need help, Prowler?" Jazz drawled.

"I hate you," Prowl replied lowly.

"Ya only wish ya did," Jazz laughed. He looked back at Hunter, whose standing caused him to loom over the rest of them. "So, now that we have mah dirty, naughy intentions toward Prowl out of the way, tell meh what you're doing all the way out here, Hunter."

"Like I said, I'm stationed at an outpost near here," Hunter said, gesturing in the general direction his station laid in. "It's a temporary assignment while one of the post's scouts recovers from a virus. He was attacked recently while out in one of the southern sectors, a province near the capitol. Apparently the Decepticons have perfected the art of viral warfare."

"There are more the a few fraggers under Megatron's control who think viruses are the best form of warfare," Jazz intoned.

"You don't agree?" Hunter wondered carefully.

Even Prowl looked over in curiosity of the answer. He was aware of Jazz's growing reluctance to use certain methods which once would have been commonplace for him, but he did not know the extent of Jazz's experience with viral warfare. There were still many details about his volatile partner that were shrouded in mystery.

"Ah can use viruses, but Ah don't like 'em as much as other methods," Jazz said lightly, as if he were referring to something as trivial as his favourite colour. "Ah prefer psychological or physical methods. Viruses... they just seem impersonal ta meh." He cast Hunter a challenging look. "Ah'm sure you've heard of mah talents."

"I have," Hunter confirmed with a subtle glance in Prowl direction. Not that Prowl had told him anything of Jazz, seeing as they had not communicated in so long. Instead, he looked to forth of five because Smokescreen had extensively elaborated to him about Prowl's so-called 'accidents' that had landed him in the med bay multiple times. Both examples of the physical and psychological torment Jazz was capable of doling out when he saw fit.

Prowl felt the glance and returned it with a severe look of his own. "Jazz is an exceptional figure in both hacking and hand-to-hand combat. He has used his talents to the Autobots' advantage for nearly as long as he has been with us. His help has been invaluable."

"Right," said Hunter, not entirely convinced.

Jazz leaned forward, swilling the contents of his energon cube pensively. If the scout was going to stick around, he might as well get his uses out of the bot. "Hunter...as a scout, have ya heard anything about Tyger Pax or Kaon recently?"

"_Jazz..."_ Prowl intoned warningly.

"It's just a question," Jazz replied, though he was without an ounce of innocence.

The tactican did not insist on moving to another topic. They were still on fragile grounds with each other; he would only step in if things became overwhelming compromised.

Hunter looked back and forth between the two, and then pondered the question carefully. "Is there anything in particular you were looking for?"

"Rumours about anything, especially near the borderlands," Jazz replied.

"Can't say I've heard anything," Hunter admitted, his mind racing as any bot programmed for tactical analysis would. He looped through nearly all of his recent memories to make sure he didn't miss anything. "Then again, I haven't been listening for anything in Tyger Pax or Kaon either. There might be something circulating that I haven't paid attention to."

Jazz cursed softly, sitting back in his seat.

Prowl sagged in disappointment.

"Let me guess. This has something to do with your classified mission?" Hunter said.

Prowl nodded. "We are..." he paused, considering what he might say that would not compromise their secrecy too badly. "Investigating rumours of some strange occurrences."

"Seems a little obscure for the two of you to check out, doesn't it?" Hunter wondered. "I mean, Iacon's Head Tactical Adviser and Jazz... well, you're Jazz." He flapped a hand at the saboteur, because honestly, Jazz was his own explanation. "It's a long ways away, especially if you're flying a ship like this. A scout from either Tyger Pax or Kaon could have been sent out."

"We cannot discuss the nature of this, Hunter," Prowl insisted. "Please understand it is vital that we attend to this and no one else."

Hunter did not press the subject. He did, however, take a long draught from his cube to give himself time to think. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. Every possible scenario and what it could possibly mean. Half of his energon was gone by the time he brought it away from his mouthplates. "How long do you two plan to be here?"

"Just for the night," Jazz replied. "We plan ta move out in the morning."

"Can you wait a little longer?"

Jazz and Prowl exchanged careful glances. They had perfected the art of the silent conversation over the last few orns, so they merely needed the optic contact to confirm.

The connection was not lost on Hunter.

"How long do you expect us to wait?" Prowl enquired.

"Tomorrow evening, maybe late night at the latest," Hunter said. "Long enough for me to return to my post and poke around for some stuff. I can check out if any unusual activity has been circulating. I have a couple of contacts in Kaon from tactical- they might be able to give me something useful."

"This will all be the strictest confidence, yes?" Prowl pressed.

"Of course," Hunter assured. "No one will know the two of you are out here. I won't breath a word about your designations or about the reasons why I'm enquiring about the borderlands. It'll all be for curiosity's sake, if you know what I mean."

"Good," Jazz intoned.

The scout finished off the rest of his energon and set the empty cube on the makeshift table. "Stay put until I get back. I promise I'll dig something up."

"We will be here when you return," Prowl promised.

"I'll see you then." Hunter offered a half smile, clapping his brother one last time on the shoulder. He cast Jazz a smile that was not so affectionate, belying the suspicions that remained. Jazz was openly suspicious of Hunter, his smile tinted with poison.

With the usual melody of transformation, Hunter collapsed into his alt mode and disappeared into the darkness.

Jazz continued to sit in his chair and sip from his energon cube.

Prowl stared down at his tensely.

"Can we trust him?" the saboteur suddenly asked.

The tactician looked up to regard his partner with a carefully calculating expression. "He is my brother," he said.


	31. Chapter 31

The reviews for the last chapter blew me away. Thank you so much to so many of you who put a little extra _oomph_ into your comments. I think I had the best fun with the ones who started speculating on Hunter's true allegiances, as well as the ones who picked up on Jazz's... how should we say? _Curtness_ toward Hunter that may or may not have been a slight case of the jealousies. For the former, I had certainly intended Hunter's entrance into the story to be ambiguous. As for his exit, some of you may be surprised. Others, not so much. XD As for dearest Jazzy bot... To tell the truth, when I was writing the chapter, I hadn't realized I was portraying him as jealous of Hunter. It was very clever of the readers who picked up on that, seeing things that I had not even intended for the writing. Perhaps I've become so accustomed to the moods of the characters that now I am developing them subconsciously as I write. XD

Anyways, I just really wanted to say that I was deeply impressed and inspired everyone's clever, enthusiastic, and insightful reviews. Thank you so much for the ones who invested a little more than they usually do. You restored my faith in this site. ^_^

Also, special thanks to **FunkyFish1991** for helping me to decide to post this now instead of the next side of forever.

As per the usual, my thanks to ALL of the reviewers of last chapter: **White ****Aster,**** Katea-Nui,**** VyxenSkye, ****quasarmom, ****TheVastraNararda, ****smoking ****caramels,**** The ****Piper ****o f****Locksley, ****renegadewriter8,**** DemonSurfer,**** Optimus**** Bob,**** Imbri**** of**** the**** Moon, ****RococoSpade,**** Wind ****of**** the**** Dawn, ****BoredTech, ****Sparklespepper, ****CNightJoy,**** Jessie07,**** Midnight ****Marquis,**** Poisoninja, ****Darkeyes17,**** femme4jack,**** SwedishDragon,**** Fianna9,**** Psyche102,**** Daklog73, ****DitzyMusciLover,**** Wise**** Crack ****Idiots,**** StarscreamII,**** Anodythe,**** Sideslip,**** Camfield,**** autumnannette19,**** 1bloodtempest,**** ChaosGarden,**** FunkyFish1991,**** Nightblooming**** Orchid,**** Faecat,**** Peacewish,** and **Kida ****Bridger**! You guys are too wonderful~

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**Chapter 31**

The moment that Hunter quit their company, Jazz moved into the ship for his shift of recharge.

Prowl remained outside. He kept his seat and let his thoughts occupy his time until midnight came and went. He had enough thoughts to think about that he was not bored for the entirety of his shift. There was Shockwave to consider, who did not dare to be forgotten. Prowl was too wise to forget about the severity of the situation. Shockwave was the only reason he was out in the middle of nowhere, following Jazz on a possible suicide mission. Had it been any one else other than Shockwave as their target, he probably would have let Jazz go on his merry way with full confidence that the saboteur could take care of himself. But Shockwave... Prowl trusted Jazz's descriptions of the bot, and therefore he would stay by Jazz's side for the duration of this mission. No matter what they happened to encounter. Shockwave... or his experiments.

The Decepticon was not the sole subject of Prowl's thoughts, however. He also had other angles of this mission that had to be attended to, such as the likely defence precautions Shockwave might have installed if he was indeed set up in the borderlands. How many accompanying Decepticons might he have on hand? If there were Neutral victims present, how might they be rescued? What might their damages be? What if Prowl and Jazz became victims themselves...? So many unknowns about this missions. They did not know where Shockwave's exact location was, or how many accomplices he might have, or if he was even in the borderlands at all. Normally, Prowl would have a lot more than just vague rumours and his partner's determination to go on such a mission, but in this case... Apparently he thought very little of protocol nowadays. Jazz has, indeed, been a bad influence on him.

And then there was the matter of Hunter to think about.

Prowl had not been initially questioning about his... _brother'_s presence. He suspected that might have been his own folly, induced by familiarity with the bot. If it had been anyone else he encountered in the middle of nowhere, he would have been far more reserved. Jazz's suspicions of the scout were infectious. Prowl now found himself calculating and recalculating the chances of running into anyone, let alone someone so closely related to his past, in this place. The percentages were not high. And yet the chances that Hunter meant to do them mischief seemed impossible compared to his impeccable record as a Security officer and as an Autobot. There was no precedence for betrayal. Hunter may be a playful bot with a peculiar fascination for physical contact, but he was not a Decepticon. He couldn't be.

At the end of his shift, Prowl dutifully climbed into the back of _Putter-Poof _and nudged Jazz awake. The saboteur was reluctant to get up, feigning recharge for several moments before making a show of coming online. He heaved himself up and climbed out of the ship, leaving the floor space free for Prowl to recharge on. The metal retained Jazz's warmth as Prowl got comfortable on it. It smelled of cleaning products and dirt dragged in from outside. The moment his head touched down, he fell deeply into recharge with only the vague reel of memories playing in his head to keep him company.

Jazz took up his post outside, choosing Prowl's seat instead of his own, since the seat was still warm. Temperatures did not overtly bother Cybertronians, so much so that even the frigid conditions of outer space were little trouble for them, but they did recognize the difference between warm and cold. Generally speaking, they held a preference to temperatures that did not normally freeze their afts to the objects they were sitting on.

Jazz's thoughts were similar to that of Prowl's as he served his shift. Concerns of Shockwave. Plotting revenge and violent deaths. A vague worry for the lives of Neutrals. An eagerness for the thrill of battle and the delight of smearing energon across the walls and floors- although Jazz surmised he probably did not share that thought with Prowl. He also concerned himself with Hunter. He could not say that he disliked the bot, per se, but he did not like him either. Everyone was a potential enemy until they proved themselves otherwise. Even after they proved themselves, they could still be a threat. Prowl had been too liberal in bringing the Autobot back to their camp. Hunter had been too eager to assist them. Jazz had been too soft in only giving a warning shot; he should have shot the intruder in the head first and then asked questions later.

Every couple of joors, he got up to run a shallow perimeter check to make sure no one was going to sneak up on them during the slow, quiet joors of the early pre-dawn. Thankfully, everything stayed quiet in the ruins. Not even a sensor ghost to haunt them.

When he came back from his fourth short loop around the perimeter, Prowl had already come back online and was sitting outside on the ground with bits and pieces of himself spread out on the ground. Despite it being mid-morning already, and a rather pleasant morning from what Jazz could see from the collapsed hole he had passed under, it was as dark as midnight in the docking lot. As a precaution, Prowl kept the hull lights dim to prevent attracting attention. Nevertheless, Jazz could see the tactician hunched over on the ground, his torso twisted around to get at an exposed valve on his lower right side in the back. If he listened carefully enough, he could make out the soft sound of a rare series of curses falling from Prowl's mouthplates.

"What are ya doing?" Jazz wondered, using his feet to shuffle aside the many pieces of grey armour laid out in his way.

Prowl jumped in surprise and spun around. They still had not turned off their dampeners, so he had had no warning of Jazz's silent approach. He quickly spotted the saboteur's quicksilver frame in front of him and the mess he was making of the armour that he had taken his time organizing. His mouthplates pursed at the mess.

"Well?" Jazz wondered. "If Ah knew you'd be stripping for meh, Ah would've polished mahself up all special for ya."

"I am doing a maintenance check- for _my_ benefit, not yours," Prowl said dryly, shooing Jazz's feet out of the way so that he could begin reordering his armour parts.

It seemed Jazz was in the mood to tease, because he said, "Going solo, huh? Sounds kinky. Can Ah watch?"

"Why? So you can add my illicit activities to the report you are bound to give Hunter when he returns?" He arched his optic ridges. "No, thank you."

Jazz laughed. "There's still time ta change that. Ah have a gift for getting down and dirty real quick."

"And again, no thank you." He rolled his optics. "How did we get on this ridiculous topic again?"

"Something about maintenance..." the saboteur said with a nonchalant wave of his hand.

"Ah, right." He straightened himself up with a sense of self-importance. "It is protocol to perform a maintenance check when going out on a mission. We left so suddenly, there was no chance to perform one before leaving Iacon."

"So you're doing one now?"

Prowl shot him a pointed look that clearly said _Duh_. "We have been moving at such an intense pace that there has been no opportunity until now."

"Ya know, that's not as fun as getting naughty in the dirt." Jazz looked around himself to find a safe spot to place his feet, and then hopped around until he was out of Prowl's OCD minefield. "How long have you been at it?"

"Not long. I'm done cleaning out my joints and under my armour, so I'm starting on fluid replacements." Finally the slates of his removed armour were put back in order. No, wait, one was still crooked. A second later, the offending crookedness was corrected. He sighed in relief. And then he returned to what he had been doing before, twisting around to reach the valve on his back near his spinal column.

"Need help?" Jazz asked.

"No, I can get it."

"Are ya sure?" He already knew the answer. He'd helped Prowl do maintenance before.

"I'm sure."

That wasn't the right answer and both of them knew it.

Jazz stood back and watched for nearly a breem. If the Autobot wanted to be stubborn about this because Jazz had unintentionally snuck up him, then fine. Let him be stubborn. Prowl came no more closer to reaching the valve on his back than he would come to understanding good humour. He got points for trying, though. He was trying_really_ hard.

When Jazz finally had enough, he sighed and asked again: "Need help with that?"

"...yes." It was the sound of utter defeat.

The saboteur could not help but rub it in. "What's the magic word?"

"I hate you."

"That's three words. And a lie. Try again." No matter how dark it was, no one could miss the bright grin on his faceplate.

Prowl made a face like he was forced to swallow something very bitter. Like his pride. One would think he'd be used to that by now. "Jazz, would you _please_ help me reach the valve on my back. I can not reach it on my own."

"Awww, Prowler, why didn't ya just say so in the first place!"

Prowl continued to make a face that expressed his displeasure, and yet Jazz simply laughed at it.

"It is one of the disadvantages of this frame that I don't have very good articulation," the tactician said needlessly. The projecting mass of his heavy chest armour made it hard to turn as far around as he needed; it might have been logical for him to remove it to give him better articulation, but it was the culture preference of bots from more "conservative" territories, such as Simfur, to retain their chest plating and/or armour during maintenance.

"Ya should have gotten a frame with the valve in an accessible place," Jazz shrugged as he circled around Prowl and crouched down.

"Like where, between my legs? No thank you. I've heard those designs have embarrassing malfunctions, like the cap popping off at inopportune moments," Prowl snorted.

Jazz snorted too. "Ah didn't mean _there_. Mine's on mah right side above my pelvic complex in the front. Energon valve is on the left. Ya don't see meh getting all twisted out of shape when Ah do maintenance."

"Mute it and help me."

"Someone's grumpy today," Jazz teased, squinting at the shadowed place where the tactician's fingers were scrabbling. The glyph for 'lubricant' topped the tiny valve, which was circular and had a latched polymer cover. He plucked from Prowl's hands the clear polymer tube which was hooked up to a compact suction machine that would drain the fluid from the bot's system. He easily released the cap and hooked the tube up. A low hum heralded the suction machine turning on, and then a slick ooze of light grey cloudy liquid exited Prowl's frame through the transparent tube.

"You should get some maintenance done while you can. Hunter will be here by the end of the orn if all goes well and we shouldn't waste any time after that," Prowl suggested.

Jazz stepped back, taking up the makeshift seat that faced Prowl and his work. He absently scratched at a patch of grime adhered to the side of his leg. "Ya suggesting we head out as soon as we learn whatever Hunter gotta say?"

"Yes."

"Good enough," Jazz replied, grimacing when he realized how glued on the dirt was. It wasn't coming off without a heavy scrub brush. And maybe some acid. "Ah didn't even want ta wait this long, but..."

Prowl glanced up quickly before returning his attention to the slowly filling container of used lubricant. He understood that the only reason they were sticking around for so long, even under the suspicion of the bot's true intentions, was solely because Hunter was Prowl's brother. If it had been anyone else, even someone with important information, they would not have waited. Shockwave could move out at any moment. They ran the risk of missing him with every moment they waited, and yet they still took that risk.

"We'll move out as soon as we hear what Hunter finds," Prowl assured.

"Hopefully we can make up for lost time," Jazz sighed.

_Putter-Poof_ made some kind of creaking noise that might have been an agreement... or might have been a curse that more exercise was coming.

The saboteur glanced back at the ship with a raised optic ridge, as if expecting the aircraft to share another witty sentiment. _Putter-Poof_ wisely remained silent. Jazz shook his head and turned back around to Prowl, who watched him with a mild expression.

"Ah've been meaning ta ask..." Jazz said lowly. "About Hunter?"

Prowl quickly looked away, carefully adjusting the suction machine sitting near his knee. "I have considered the possibility that he may not be Autobot anymore. I cannot see him switching sides like Kingpin did. There's no precedence for it. Running into him out here may very well be a coincidence; there is an Autobot outpost near here, so it is not out of the question that he might be stationed there."

"Sure," Jazz agreed carefully. "But..."

_But what if he really is a Decepticon?_

"If he betrays us, you may deal with him," Prowl murmured.

The saboteur tensed. "Ya know Ah won't play by Autobot rules."

He flinched. "I know."

Jazz nodded solemnly. If it did turn out that Hunter had betrayed them, the scout wouldn't die for it. Jazz would simply wipe all of his physical memories and put his programming back to orn one. He would still live, but he would no longer be a threat to anyone.

It was quiet again between them after that. The only sound was the low hum of the suction machine, which was nearly done its job draining all the excess lubricant.

Without saying a word, Jazz slid from his seat to the ground, which was gritty against his aft. He levered up on one hand and swept beneath him with the other before settling back down more definitely. He spotted the maintenance kit Prowl had used to remove pieces of his armour; he took it up without qualm and began removing the necessary slates of armour. Every bot had an order they preferred to maintenance themselves in, and Jazz liked to start at the bottom and work his way up. It was a habit he had started... well, he didn't remember when, but he assumed it was a long time ago, much like everything else he had learned. He only had a vague memory of being shot at when he was vulnerable taking off pieces of his armour, so he had decided it was best to always start with the legs first and leave the most vulnerable parts of himself for last. He might not have been a conservative bot, but he kept his chest armour on at all times for self-preservation reasons.

Some armour was very easy to remove, held on only by snaps and hinges which could be released at will. These were generally small pieces of armour around the articulation joints. Their easy removal was meant for circumstances where increased mobility was necessary, such as in speed chases, hand-to-hand combat where both combatants were high-calibre fighters, or even intimate play were contortions might play a part. Large pieces were screwed into place on reinforced anchors which were embedded deeply on the endoskeleton. Those pieces were generally never meant to come off except for maintenance or due to extensive damages. Not only were the largest pieces of armour meant for protection, but they were also the most 'alive' pieces, consisting not only of metal but also extensive networks of neural wires and circuit boards. Despite the armour being tough enough to withstand battle, it still deserved to be treated with care.

"There's a little acetic acid left, if you need it to clean anything," Prowl intoned, pushing the small squeeze bottle of acid forward.

"Thanks," Jazz replied, scooping up the offering and placing it within reach at his side.

Neither Prowl nor Jazz commented on each other's maintenance habits, mostly because they were already accustomed to the habits of the other. They had maintenanced themselves in front of each other before. It was not a taboo subject in Cybertronian culture in general, but rather an accepted social expectation. It was common place to find bots sitting on the blocks in the wash racks in groups with their parts spread out in front of them, using the chore as a way to be sociable. Unlike most bots who preferred to trade cleaning secrets to make the task go faster, Jazz and Prowl had a treaty, similar to their earlier silence treaty, which stipulated that neither one was to make comment on the other's techniques. Ever. Prowl's techniques were based on the recommended procedures developed by his frame's manufacturer. Jazz's techniques had been forged from living a thousand lifetimes in the underworld of Cybertron. It was simply more peaceful to accept that how they went about maintenance chores was unique to them. No matter how wrong the other one was.

Prowl grunted as the last of his lubricant was drained from his frame. The container was sealed and set aside. Once they returned to Iacon, it would be submitted for recycling so that it could be reused by someone else. Resources like frame fluids were too precious to waste frivolously by throwing them away. He took up the new fluid and hooked it up to a secondary pump on the suction machine, and then brought out another tube, a clean one, and struggled to disconnect himself from the first tube and hook up the second. Jazz took pity, crawling forward to snap one tube away and hook up the second. With the flip of a switch, the new lubricant was fed into Prowl's frame.

Jazz watched the progress of the clear fluid for a moment before returning to stripping himself of armour. Once his legs were free, he brought one of the slates into his lap to begin scrubbing with a bristled brush to break up the layer of grime. A little dab of acetic acid added a new tangy smell to the air.

Since talking about their habits was still forbidden, Prowl chose another topic. One that he was concerned over more so than the allegiance of his own brother.

"How did you discover Shockwave's existence while with the Decepticons?"

Jazz's hand slipped from its steady scrubbing. His gaze darted up. "What makes ya ask that?"

"Curiosity."

"Curiosity?" A humourless smirk appeared on the saboteur's faceplate. "Curiosity is exactly what drove meh ta discover Shockwave," he said, and then amended with, "Well, curiosity and a _slight_ superiority complex. Small, really. Like, only the size of the moons."

"Oh yes, _only_ the size of the moons," Prowl commented dryly.

Jazz's humourless smirk twitched a fraction before fading. "Ah never did like having Megatron think he controlled meh. Ah did whatever Ah liked whenever Ah liked, even if that meant going through all of his precious secrets."

Prowl canted his head slightly. "Have you ever done that to the Autobots?"

"Before or after Ah left the 'Cons?"

The tactician rightly assumed that Jazz had hacked into Autobot mainframes while working for the Decepticons. That was a given. "After you left the Decepticons."

Jazz considered the question with slightly pursed mouthplates. "Ah did do some hacking, but not as often as ya might think," he admitted. "It was mostly slag ta keep meh up ta date, or ta mess with the rosters ta bother everyone. Worse thing Ah ever did was infect Mirage's personal files with a minor virus."

Prowl could accept that answer easily enough.

The silver mech invested a little more attention than necessary as he continued scrubbing. "Megatron has all sorts of secret files hidden away. Things that no one but himself is ever supposed ta see. Ta someone like meh, that's just like sending out a nice invitation with lace and a bow." He huffed a mirthless laugh. "When bots say not ta do something, it makes meh want ta do it more."

"I've noticed," intoned the tactician.

Jazz's white gaze lingered on him for a moment.

Prowl looked away. "I take it one of those secret files was Shockwave's," he said quietly. The lubricant was nearly fully replaced. He decided that energon filtering would be next.

"There was one for everyone who Megatron knew was a threat to himself. Starscream had one. Ah had one. And then there was Shockwave." His gaze turned haunted. "Ah didn't know who Shockwave was when Ah first found the file. No one ever spoke his designation. He was like a ghost, more so than even meh. The moment Ah saw his file, Ah _had_ ta look in it."

"What did you find?"

"A whole lot of nightmares," Jazz sighed. "Ah wasn't a good bot back then, but even Ah knew what he was doing was _wrong_. Xerxia might have done things ta meh that are best left unsaid, and Ah've done things that will probably have mah spark rotting in the pit when Ah die, but Shockwave... he took it ta a whole new level."

A cold shudder passed through Prowl. "His experiments?"

"Some bots might be able to call them experiments, but some of the things he's done..." Jazz fell into a dark silence. He looked to the side and scrubbed his faceplate roughly, leaving light smudges of rust-coloured dust across the metal. "Ya think ya already know the limits of depravity, but then ya read a file like his and realize ya haven't even scratched the surface."

"What sorts of things has he done?" A part of him needed to know. It was to his advantage to know exactly what sorts of things his enemy was capable of. Jazz had mentioned the horrors occasionally, but never details. The only definite detail Prowl knew was what had become of Bluestreak after the sniper's brief incarceration. There was a part of him that did not want to know what sorts of things were capable of unsettling Jazz.

"You'll see," said Jazz, sparing Prowl the horrors for the time being. "If we meet up with him, you'll see firsthand what he can do."

Prowl frowned, but did not insist on being informed. Done with the new transfusion of lubricant, he reached behind himself and gracelessly tugged the tube from his lower back instead of popping it out properly. He took his time shaking excess fluid out and coiling the tubes, setting them aside in his own special obsessive-compulsive way. He then stood up and started moving in order to circulate the new lubricant.

"Do you think the two of us will be enough to face him, if it turns out he's really behind the disappearances?" he asked. It was a rather serious question, and yet he asked it while he flexed one arm over his head. Then he stretched the other arm.

"We have ta be," Jazz sighed. He revved gently, setting aside one slate of armour and picking up another. He turned it over several times to inspect it at all angles under what limited light he had. Once done, he started scrubbing where the armour most needed scrubbing. His gaze darted up once, his visor flashing. "Okay, your turn."

"My turn?" Prowl wondered quizzically. Twist. Twist. Twist. His spinal column needed it from sitting hunched over for so long. With each twist came a satisfying crack of his spinal column being realigned.

The saboteur cast him a flat look. "Yep, your turn. Start talking. Ah don't want ta talk about Shockwave all orn. It's depressing. You have ta start talking."

"Now?"

"Yep."

"About what?"

"Anything."

Prowl was still uncomfortable from the topic they had just covered. He wasn't sure what else they could possibly talk about. "Should I start briefing you on possible scenarios...?"

Jazz started to make snoring noises, drooping forward as if he had suddenly fallen into recharge.

Prowl quickly recovered from his discomfort, souring into displeasure.

"I liked you better when you were evil," he said tightly. "At least when you made fun of me, you didn't remind me of Sideswipe."

Jazz snapped 'online' out of indignation. "Low blow, Prowler."

"You're the one who fell asleep," Prowl replied, sitting down once again when he was done with stretching. He dragged his filter machine into his lap and turned it over to inspect it. He popped open a panel and inspected the filters within. Filtering energon was a more important business than the simple matter of changing lubricant. When everything met his approval, he withdrew the two built-in tubes...and then looked at Jazz semi-expectantly.

Jazz arched both optic ridges. "Ah'm not helping with ya that. Ya called meh a half-bit."

"I compared you to Sideswipe."

"Same difference." Jazz pointedly continued to scrub his armour with more investment than anyone should truly have.

"Do I need to say please again?"

"Maybe."

There came a long sigh. _"__Please.__"_

Jazz sat there for several astroseconds pretending he had heard nothing. His gaze darted up once, as if to check to see what Prowl was doing. The tactician happened to be sitting exactly where he had been astroseconds before, staring directly at Jazz with that very direct stare of his.

"Fine, ya convinced meh," sighed the saboteur, relinquishing his armour and scrub brush in order to crawl across the small space separating them. The energon valve on the other side of Prowl's lower back was topped with two different caps locked more securely than the lubricant valve. Losing a little bit of the slick stuff wasn't as bad as leaking energon everywhere; one was likely to frag up your joints if you left it too long, the other was likely to kill you. The cap on top was for adding energon directly to the reservoirs, while the bottom cap was for syphoning energon out. Having done this before for Prowl, Jazz easily flicked the locks and undid the caps, hooking up the filtering tubes before falling back to his original seat.

"Thank you," Prowl said.

"You're welcome," Jazz replied.

Prowl grunted as energon started to cycle out of his frame. Liquid energy moved through one tube into the machine, its colour a little dull from collected impurities and the amount of times it had been recycled through his frame already. Eventually, when the energy contained within the fluid was no longer viable, it would burn off completely, leaving room for the energon that he regularly consumed to keep his reservoirs topped. The filtering machine he used to clean the impurities out of his energon was larger than the simple vacuum used to removed lubricant. It took several movements for the first drops of energon to move through all the of the filters before cycling it back into his frame.

That strangely awkward atmosphere they were prone to falling into lately settled over them yet again.

Another grunt escaped the tactician as he started to _feel_ the drain throughout his frame, in his fingers, tips of his feet, and in his head. It was a slightly nauseating feeling. His circulation sped up in order to cycle all of his energon back to his first reservoirs to be emptied out and filtered. Once done, it would be fed back into his secondary reservoir, and from there it would flow back into his frame. Because of this draining function of energon filtering, the flow of circulation in some places in his frame was reversed, adding to the nausea. He flexed his fingers when a mild cold numbness settled into them. A grumble escaped him.

Jazz did not glance up. Instead, he determinedly kept his head down while he worked. He wanted to tell Prowl to stop making those noises. No grunting, moaning, groaning, or breathy exhalations. Even exclamations of frustration were toeing the line. They were too much like the noises he made while doing _other_ things. Things he did on his back, with his interface panel open, and generally someone else was in the room with him. And Jazz could not rid himself of those certain images from his head. It seemed that every time they came to him, they became a little more vivid.

Thankfully, a distraction came in the form of Prowl spontaneously attempting to be social.

"Did I ever tell you I arrested Sideswipe once?" he suddenly asked.

Jazz stared at him quizzically.

"You said that I should start making conversation, so I am," said the tactician. "I arrested Sideswipe once, before the war."

One silver optic ridge arched. "Do tell," he said. If this turned out as good as it sounded, he would have some lovely blackmail to hang over the red twin's head.

"It was during the period before the war broke out, just as the Golden Age was coming to an end," said the tactician.

Jazz nodded politely. He didn't remember much of that transition time between the Golden Age and the war. Then again, everything in his life was pretty much a blur, so an inability to recall the exact details of a time period were nothing new. What he did gather of the time was that strife and unrest had become increasingly pronounced while Megatron had worked in the underground, gathering forces from the most downtrodden and vicious of Cybertron's citizens. The twins had gone underground by then, immersed in the seething underbelly of Cybertron's most seedy organizations. They were two bots that Jazz did recall out of blurriness of his past; they were among two of the deadliest creatures he had ever encountered, but they were also two of the saddest. There had been a pervasive miasma of mourning about them that he had taken so much delight in exploiting. Come to think of it, that sadness was still there. Jazz no longer enjoyed exploiting it.

"In my precinct, all bots were on a rotating shift to take patrols around the city, no matter the division that they were involved in. It was a way of fostering equality among the divisions and ranks, I suppose," Prowl said. He recalled going out on patrols with Raven, the captain of the precinct. It had not been considered out of the ordinary, though Prowl disliked those patrols the most because he had been terribly aware of the hierarchical disparity between them. Raven, for the most part, had tried to be amiable as much as Prowl's demeanour would allow.

Jazz looked him up and down sceptically. "Ah don't suppose ya would have appreciated those patrols."

Prowl nodded with a wry smile. "Most of the time, I simply traded with Hunter or Smokescreen so that I could stay in the precinct. I hated going out." He then shrugged. "But on the orn I caught Sideswipe, both of them had other duties to attend to, so I _had_ to go."

"So... how did it all go down?" Jazz wondered.

Prowl's smile grew, even laughing quietly. "I was called out half way through my shift to catch a little glitch causing mischief on a mid-level."

"What kinds of mischief?" Jazz wondered. He finished cleaning the main parts of his leg armour and began to reattach the slates of silver metal.

"Flashing buildings and pedestrians."

The saboteur laughed out loud. "Ya know, Ah can see Sideswipe doing slag like that."

Flashing was one of the most annoying bouts of mischief that citizens of Cybertron had to put up with. It involved individuals or groups driving around and flashing their bright lights at others. Some pranksters enjoyed using their horns or other noise-making devices to aid in their disruptive mischief.

"He was a terrible nuisance," Prowl snorted.

"Ah can see him being that, too. Still is, if ya ask meh," Jazz chuckled. "Tell meh what happened."

Prowl leaned back, careful not to disturb the tubes attached to his back. "Well, I got down to mid-level expecting some hooligan to be causing all sorts of trouble, and I wasn't wrong. What I had not calculated what that it was one of _The__Twins_ causing the trouble." He tilted his shoulders up in a slight shrug. "As famous as they might have been at one time, I was not interested in letting Sideswipe get away with his antics. The famous are not above the law."

"So ya tried ta arrest him."

"I did."

"And how'd that work out for ya?" Jazz wondered with a grin.

"In hundreds, if not thousands, of credits worth of property damage," Prowl admitted plainly. "He ran. I chased. He took me all over the mid-level of the city and then some. There was vandalism, crashes, outright assault- if you can think of it, it seemed like he was determined to do it. The little fragger had laughed the whole time, as if it were some kind of game."

"It probably was to him," Jazz shrugged.

Prowl nodded. "It probably was. I had to call in back up in order to corner him in a docking lot before I was able to slap a pair of stasis cuffs on him. Towed him all the way back to the precinct and threw him in a holding cell."

Both of Jazz's optic ridges went up. "Can't imagine he enjoyed that too much."

"I didn't think any bot could complain so much or so loudly," Prowl snorted. "He only stayed in the cell for a joor before he was released."

"Out of the kindness of your own spark?"

"Not likely." He pursed his mouthplates. "A whole gang of misfits came in after him not long after he was detained, Sunstreaker being among them. They had a pleasure bot in their company and some kind of viral user. Apparently the pleasure bot distracted the officer looking after the holding cells while the viral user infected the precinct's mainframe to break Sideswipe out."

"Ouch."

"It was orns before we had the systems fixed," Prowl lamented darkly. "That little fragger got away without even paying a fine."

"Sideswipe can be sneaky like that."

"He can be, but then again, so can I," Prowl said with a pointed look. "It wasn't until they were assigned to Iacon as Autobots that I saw them again, although as feral as they were... they were hardly recognizable. I wasn't a commanding officer, but I still outranked them. They had triple shifts on monitor duty for several orns thanks to me."

Jazz shook his head with a laugh. "And ya call _meh_ evil?"

Prowl cast him a smug look. "I figured it was Sideswipe's comeuppance, since he served no time nor did he pay a fine for all the trouble he caused in Simfur."

"You _are_ evil! But don't get too smug, Prowler," Jazz warned playfully. "Ya still owe them a favour for getting them ta come after meh that first time. Sideswipe still has his chance ta take his revenge. He can ask anything of ya, remember?"

The tactician made a face that looked extra grotesque in the low light. "I had hoped everyone would have forgotten about that matter by now."

Jazz smirked. "Not gonna happen. Ya might have served him his comeuppance, but Sideswipe don't forget nothing. He'll get ya ta pay up sooner or later."

"Damn."

Jazz merely laughed at him.

The rest of their morning, leading straight into the afternoon, was spent in amiable alternations of conversation and silence. When their maintenance was done, they took turns running patrols.

They sparred lightly for something to to occupy both their minds and frames. There was no real effort in the session. It became more like a dance, where they moved with and against each other in perfect rhythm; give and take, give and take. Their movements ultimately became hypnotic, entrancing both of them to think only of the movements; the feel of them, the balance, the flow. How their frames felt as they came into contact with each other. It was calming that they could exist in such a state of limbo where they were at utter ease and yet acutely aware of the other. This lasted right up until Prowl's heel caught on the edge of one of the chairs, sending him sprawling across the seat. Jazz had been too close, in the midst of delivering a slow jab, and ended up overbalancing without Prowl there to counter the momentum. He landed atop of his partner with a clatter of metal against metal.

"Oh," said Prowl as he realized what had happened.

"Um..." said Jazz, looking down into the stunned optics of the bot he was effectively pinning with his weight. "This means Ah win the match, right?"

"By default," Prowl pointed out.

"Ah can live with that."

They wriggled in an attempt to get up at the same time. Jazz placed his hand down for more leverage, only to come down on one of Prowl's doorwings, which caused the tactician's frame to bow backwards from the pressure. Their chests bumped together. The play of their magnetic fields made them acutely aware of the other. A mild involuntary magnetic pulse buzzed through them. The storm-grey mech's pale optics darkened; the saboteur's visor flashed. Prowl revved deeply, turning his faceplate to the side.

"Please get off me," he breathed, his hands braced on Jazz's sides as if to push him away.

"Alright," Jazz sighed, finally managing to slide to the side until he landed in a crouch next to the chair.

Prowl swung himself around to sit up. He was frowning. His doorwings drooped low.

"...sorry," said the saboteur without looking at his partner. He did not specify what he was apologizing for. There were a lot of things he had to apologize for, except the fall. The fall was Prowl's own fault.

"I accept your apology," said the tactician, not caring what the apology was for. He stood up and walked out of the circle of light of their small camp. "I'm... going to run a patrol." Even though it looked a lot like he was running away. Without waiting for a reply, he transformed and left.

"Frag," Jazz sighed, continuing to sit on the ground with his back to the chair for a long time. He didn't move until he heard footsteps approaching. The gait was wrong. It wasn't Prowl. Jazz made no secret of charging his blaster loudly, letting the whine act as the warning.

"It's Hunter. Don't shoot," called the approaching bot.

"Gotta give meh a better reason than that," Jazz drawled, letting the glowing muzzle bob up and down in a taunt.

"I have information you might like," offered the scout. He shuffled into view, looking dustier than he had the orn before. His armour dinged from roadside abuse. Paint scratched. Both hands were raised in front of him to show that he wasn't armed and did not plan on showing off any firepower. He came in peace.

Jazz pulled the trigger anyways.

"Slag!" Hunter yelped, jumping straight into a heap of rubble for cover. The blast of plasma shot past him into the corner of a building, bursting into a fireball that briefly blinded Jazz. A halo of glowing melted metal lingered in the dark afterwards, slowly faded back into the gloom.

"What was that for!" Hunter exclaimed as he exploded out of the junk heap.

"There was a glitch mouse," Jazz said nonchalantly. "It's gone now."

"I bet it is," Hunter grouched, smacking the new accumulation of dirt off his frame. "Is this how you treat all the bots trying to help you?"

"Pretty much," Jazz shrugged. He figured Hunter was getting off easy. "Ah'd invite ya ta sit down, but Ah don't like ya, so ya can stand."

Hunter sneered. "I don't trust you enough to sit down. You'd probably rig the chair to explode."

Jazz cast a sharp grin that had nothing friendly about it. "Now you're just giving meh ideas."

"You know exactly where you can shove those ideas, too." Hunter propped himself against one of _Putter-Poof_'s landing struts, safely out of reach of the saboteur. He scanned the area carefully with both scanners and his optics, seeing nothing but gloom and wreckage. "Where's Prowl?"

"Patrolling. He should be back soon."

"Good."

Jazz arched an optic ridge. "Ya got somewhere better ta be, Autobot?"

"No, you're just not my usual type of company," Hunter replied nonchalantly. "I prefer bots who wouldn't like to kill me while I recharge. Pit, I prefer the ones who don't use me as target practice."

"But those are the best kinds," Jazz drawled meanly. "Besides, your brother don't mind meh."

Both of Hunter's optic ridges went up. "I'm still trying to figure out how _that _happened."

White light flashed menacingly from the saboteur's visor. "Ah hope ya fry your circuits trying ta figure it out."

They continued to exchange mild verbal barbs until they heard the sound of Prowl approaching. Both bots simultaneously recognized the sound of Prowl's engine, and each turned to the other smugly as if to say who was the superior creature for being able to identify the tactician in such a way. Jazz won the contest. Not because he was the superior being, because that obviously was not a contest, but because he aimed his blaster directly at Hunter and said there was a glitch mouse on him. He would be happy to shoot it off. Hunter was not as prideful as Prowl, and so was able to recognize his own defeat in the faceplate of a charging blaster and the psychopath wielding it.

As soon as Prowl was close enough, he assumed his bipedal mode and came on to a scene that had his hackles rising. There was a distinct sense that he had just missed something, as if there had been an important conversation running until the moment the bots involved realized he was near enough to hear. Hunter and Jazz grinned in his direction, but there was an edge to their expressions that made their smiles seem forced... and a little sinister. Prowl saw no blaster in sight, but he distinctly smelled the stink of burning slag in the air. Apparently Jazz still did not like Hunter.

"Is there something I should know about?" Prowl wondered suspiciously.

Answers came from the guilty parties simultaneously. "Nope." "Nothing."

"Why am I not convinced?" the tactician sighed, moving to sit down in his seat.

"Because you have trust issues?" Hunter offered helpfully.

"Because ya have _lots_ of issues," Jazz pointed out cheerfully.

"You two are hopeless." Prowl buried his faceplate in his hands in exasperation. "Hunter, please tell me you have something to give us."

"I do," Hunter assured, rocking back on his heels. He took his time gathering his thoughts, which irritated the already short-of-temper tactician.

"Say it already," Prowl urged.

The scout drew himself up, puffing his chest out. "Okay, here it goes; I give you my blessing."

"Your what?"

"My blessing." He adopted a very new expression, this one far less sinister than before but nevertheless it made Prowl dread what was about to come out of his mouthplates next. Hunter noticed this and grinned wider. "Jazz has been telling me all about your undying love for one another and I approve of this relationship one hundred percent, so you have my blessing. I'm sure you have Smokey's blessing, too." He looked so convincing that Prowl very nearly believed him.

Jazz decided that he might not like Hunter, but he _loved_ his sense of humour. "See, don't ya feel better now, Prowl? Ya was all worried about your family not approving of meh, being an evil, murdering psychopath and all. But now ya know everyone's cool with it. We don't have ta run off an' elope no more. Isn't that nice?"

"Oh gee, my life is like a fairytale now." Absolute deadpan. "Are you two done with this ridiculous game? I had thought we had more pressing matters to attend to."

Jazz kicked his heels up on the table irreverently. "There's always time for making fun of ya. Especially when ya make it easy." As soon as he said it, he proved himself the hypocrite by gesturing imperiously to Hunter. "Now give us what ya know. We don't have all orn."

Hunter rolled his optics. "Alright, only because you asked so nicely." He took out a rectangular container from subspace with a spout top. A stream of brightly glowing energon poured into his open mouthplates, splashing down his chin. Once refreshed, he wiped his faceplate and tucked the cube away. "Since I knew you were on a deadline, I got back to my outpost as quick as possible and started digging. Didn't even get a chance to recharge, if you were wondering." No one was wondering. Hunter carried on with a shrug. "I looked up every report within the last two fortnights that might have made reference to either Tyger Pax or Kaon. Didn't find much. A report here and there; some about supply scarcity, others about mild Decepticon activity, but those aren't out of the ordinary for the area. Kaon is the Decepticons' largest stronghold, so heavy Decepticon activity all over the territory should be expected."

"Nothing else?" Prowl pressed, his tone a little despondent.

"That was all that was available in my outpost's database," Hunter sighed, not so humoured anymore. It was okay to joke around when nothing was at stake, but making reports was a whole other matter than needed the utmost seriousness. "It's not a big place, so our archives are not updated as regularly as other places. There could be reports of unusual activity filed elsewhere and we just haven't gotten them yet."

"_Damn,__"_ Jazz cursed, slamming his fist against the armrest of his seat.

"I didn't say that was the end of what I found, though," Hunter intoned quickly. "I have a few contacts in Kaon. We served together in Alta Trius's tactical division. I asked if anyone had heard anything unusual happening near the borderlands. Since you didn't give me much of a hint of what you were looking for, said I was looking for anything and covered it under research for a possible relocation for myself and just wanted to know about the area."

"Did your contacts have anything useful to report?" Prowl enquired. Externally, he looked his usual indifferent self. Internally, he was anxious of what answers Hunter may have found. There were only a few revealing factors about himself that gave away his true feelings about the matter. Jazz saw them too clearly, though he did little to react to them other than to shift in his seat so that he now leaned closer toward Prowl. Hunter noticed something distinctly different about his brother, but could not comment on it in that moment.

"They had a few things to say," Hunter said. "Most of them were saying the same things, so it's looking good that the reports are legitimate." He cycled air through his vents. "Neutrals have been approaching any Autobot that comes near their camps, which is strange enough, given that Neutrals normally avoid us. They keep mentioning something about disappearances in the area and needing our help. We just don't the resources to help them at the moment, especially in the areas where they're asking for it."

Both Jazz and Prowl bolted straight in their seats, their attentions suddenly rapt on Hunter. Unexplained disappearances. That was exactly what they were looking for.

"Where?" Jazz demanded.

"Deep south," Hunter replied automatically. "All of the reports have been coming in from the most southern point of the borderlands, nearest the pole."

The _poles_ of Cybertron, North or South take your pick, were the worst places any bot wanted to be. While the planet didn't have much of an atmosphere to claim of, they sure had one heck of an electromagnetic field to boast about. The concentrations of ambient electromagnetic energy in the north and south ends of Cybertron was enough to fry a bot's processor if he was caught in a storm without protection. Even without storms, the energy was enough to induce vivid hallucinations, severe headaches, discrepancies between the spark-frame interfaces, and periods of comatose behaviour. The lands in the most northern and southern provinces were also sparse in resources and harsh climates to live in, thus places that had never been populated thickly. Lonely and isolated places that had been dead long before the rest of the planet died.

Only idiots and bots determined to hide from the world would move close to one of the poles.

Jazz sat back with a hiss, scrubbing his faceplate roughly with his palm. "That fragger's not gonna make it easy, is he?"

Hunter made the mistake of asking, "Who?"

"That's none of your concern," Prowl intoned evenly. To Jazz, he wondered, "I take it you're still determined to go through with this, despite the inconvenient location?"

"Damn right," Jazz said.

"Then I suppose I'm still going with you," Prowl sighed, seeming a little discomforted but still determined.

Hunter crossed his arms over his chest and leaned more definitely against _Putter-Poof_'s landing strut. "If you two are going that far south, you're going to need more supplies than what you have. I can tell just by looking at this ship that you weren't planning on travelling so far."

"We can stop in the main stronghold base in Tyger Pax for supplies," Prowl reasoned. "They will have energon and insulators to protect us from the EM fields."

"And if your ship gives out due to an EM storm?" Hunter pressed.

"Then it gives out," Jazz shrugged. "Ah've been ta the pole provinces before. They're not good for flying in; too quiet and too empty ta try being stealthy in a ship. The plan was always ta set down at a distance and approach via driving."

_Putter-Poof_ sighed in utter betrayal at the prospect of being left behind. It was not a ship accustomed to working so hard, but it had finally become so invested in the mission that it had wished to see it through.

Prowl arched his optic ridges, having not be aware of that particular part of the plan, which seemed all the more dangerous now that they were going to be entering a section of Cybertron known for inducing madness and possibly death. He had not calculated this at all. He wondered if Jazz was as discomforted as he was at the prospect of going to the poles. Then again, Jazz would probably feel right at home.

Jazz leaned over and patted Prowl's arm consolingly, perfectly aware of the tactician's reservations.

Hunter did not miss the gesture, nor did he miss Prowl's acceptance of it. He frowned lightly and looked away. "If you're heading for Tyger Pax's stronghold, then let me call ahead and tell them to expect... a ship," he said. "I won't tell them who, but they should at least be ready to accommodate you. Have the supplies ready for when you leave. That sort of thing."

"That would be helpful," Prowl murmured gratefully.

"It's the least I can do." He paused, and then asked, "I take it you're going after whoever is taking those Neutrals, right?"

There was a long pause, and then, because there was no point in denying it, Prowl said, "Yes."

"Be careful, okay?" Hunter said, glancing between his brother and the saboteur as if not sure whether the enemy was some unknown kidnapper or the most obvious monster sitting amongst them.

"I always am," Prowl assured.

"Ah got his back an' he's got mine," Jazz intoned firmly.

"Sure," Hunter said noncommittally, staring at Jazz with something that was not quite an open frown. "I think... I think I should get going. I told you what you needed to know, so..." He stepped forward, stooping to grasp Prowl's shoulder. "Mind walking me out?"

Surprised by the request, the tactician nonetheless agreed. They left Jazz's company under the weight of the saboteur's uncompromising stare. As soon as they were out of sight, Hunter grabbed Prowl up into an uncomfortable hug that resulted in the bot's feet dangling above the ground. This lasted for several astroseconds, all of which were rather uncomfortable for Prowl. He did not even pat his brother on the back, but merely waited to be released. Finally, his feet touched ground again.

"Have a safe drive back to your post, Hunter," Prowl said. A ghost of a warm smile appeared on his mouthplates as he extended his hand. "Thank you so much for all of your help."

Hunter looked more stunned to see the smile than he was to touch his brother's hand. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen Prowl smile, except that it had been before Evasia died.

"You know," said the scout while still clutching the offered hand. "You _have_ changed, haven't you?"

"Change is one of the constants in this universe," Prowl replied enigmatically, his half-smile remaining in place. "Some things do not change as much as others, though."

"Very true." Hunter inclined his head, this time with a half-smile of his own. Their hands released. Prowl tucked his close to his sides. Hunter closed his into loose fists.

"I will see you soon, then?" Prowl wondered.

It would be nice to see a friendly faceplate after the mission was over.

"Count on it," Hunter assured before transforming and driving away.

"Are ya done with that would-be traitor?" Jazz called in the distance, obviously annoyed to have been forgotten for so long.

"The would-be traitor is still my brother, and still innocent until proven guilty," Prowl replied as he trudged back to camp. "And yes, I'm done with him."

"Good."

"You're awfully eager to be rid of him," Prowl observed, returning to his seat. There was an energon cube waiting for him on the table.

Jazz grunted, sucking back half his cube without looking at Prowl. Once done, he refused to reply to Prowl's previous statement. Instead, he said, "Get some recharge. We're leaving in the morning." And that was that.


	32. Chapter 32

Urgh, this chapter was such a killer. Mostly because only normal, boring stuff happens. All the good stuff is in the chapters to come. You have no clue how excited I am to show how truly disgustingly twisted Shockwave is. What he's doing to his victims right now... Well, let's just say that even those who have read _As__ We__ Come __Together_ and are familiar with the atrocities Shockwave is capable of, even you may be surprised by the projects he's currently working on... And on that cheerful note, enjoy this steaming pile of _normal _chapter while you stew and seethe over the horrors that will soon come! 8D

And as a side note, the chapter that was supposed to be 32 (this one) has now been divided into two chapters because it was getting upwards of over twenty pages. Frankly, that's too long. So much Prowl and Jazz packed into such a long chapter is liable to makes some heads explode. As pleasant as that sounds, it's not good for business. So, you get _two_ chapters featuring all the antics of Tyger Pax base- almost for the price of one, but not quite!

As a further aside, who thinks there should be a _Putter-Poof _fan club? 8D

My thanks to the reviewers of the last chapter. You continue to inspire and encourage me to keep at this beast of a story no matter how busy my life gets. I am _loving_ everyone's speculations on Hunter's true allegiances. Thank you so much to the readers who take the time to show their appreciation for this story. Thank you to the kind people who spare maybe five minutes of their day to offer some kind words. Thank you a thousand times over to the people who leave any review at all; they're basically the fuel to this story, because I sure as hell am not getting paid for this. XD Anyways, thank you to **VyxenSkye, ****Fianna9,**** sparklespepper, ****CNightJoy, ****femme4jack,**** White ****Aster,**** Darkeyes17,****evilbunny777, ****camfield,**** Psyche102,**** renegadewriter8,**** Daklog73,**** Katea-Nui,****Jessie07,**** DemonSurfer,**** phoebe****turner,**** Jinx,**** Optimus****Bob, ****luinrina,**** ChaosGarden,**** Peacewish,**** TransformersLover95,**** Kida****Bridger, ****Midnight****Marquis,**** StarscreamII,**** Wind ****of**** the ****Dawn,**** bRamble****Girl, ****smoking**** caramels,**** Wise**** Crack ****Idiots,**** Got**** Buttermilk,**** Raining****Ink,**** ABundleofDaydreams,**** JenEvan**, and **Faecat**. Once again, thank you so kindly for all the love and support you've all shown thus far~

**Chapter 32**

Tyger Pax was nothing like Jazz remembered it.

It was a barren wasteland of browns, blacks, and rusts. Empty and foreboding. Dead and desolate and full of more ghosts than just the ones Jazz had left behind when he had escaped into the world. The whole world passed below him and he was able to watch it pass by with no more love for it than he might harbour for a corpse. He sat in the co-pilot seat, letting Prowl fly for a time. He leaned against the side of the cockpit and stared out the window at the dead world around him, comforted and satisfied with the mural of rust and debris and silence. Not many could find comfort in such destruction, but Jazz could. It was like the whole territory had received its comeuppance for the horrors that one of its citizens put him through. He felt like Tyger Pax deserved to hurt a little more than any other territory on the planet.

He stared down at it now and knew that it didn't just hurt. It writhed in agony, the kind that didn't even stop after death.

In the distance, the dark shape of the capitol column rose out of the wastelands like a giant. One massive entity like a god in its own right; so great that it nearly touched the sky and beyond. It was just before dawn and the grey pre-light of almost-morning back lit the monolith with a haunting caress. Grey mist and cloud shrouded the massive circular column, creating a veil that beckoned travellers to pass within. At one time, there would have been neon lights that swirled and stretched from one side to the other, from the bottom to the top. Murals would have covered the massive land formation; hundreds of them. _Thousands_. A bizarre, garish, nightmarish monster that was both beautiful and terrifying. The capitol column was dark now, full of greys and rusts. The colour of forgotten corpses. Down its sides stretched jagged ruins of thick pipes and the claws of metal supports. Like thousands of angry fingers and talons scratching at the sky.

At its massive zenith was the Paxian stronghold for the Autobots.

Jazz wondered if Tyger Pax was still a nocturnal territory, or if the Autobots who lived here now had switched to a diurnal cycle.

"They switched to diurnal when the base was instated," Prowl suddenly said. Jazz realized that he had asked his question out loud.

"Oh," he replied.

Prowl flicked his cool gaze in Jazz's direction. There were many things reflected in those pale optics. "Are you alright?"

"Ah'm fine," Jazz sighed.

"You don't find it strange to be back?" the tactician wondered lightly. He had the tone of someone who had meant to ask another kind of question, perhaps a dozen different questions, but had settled on least conspicuous one.

"Why should it be strange?" Jazz replied. "Ah've been back before this. Can't live as long as Ah have without coming back once or twice."

"That's true, to an extent." Prowl continued to watch the saboteur out of the corner of his optic. Something about his unwavering gaze gave the impression that he did not fully believe Jazz's nonchalance about the matter.

Jazz frowned, tucking himself deeper into his seat. "It's not like this place was mah home."

Tyger Pax had _never_ been Jazz's home. But it had been closest thing to a home he had ever had.

"I just thought... never mind," Prowl sighed. Without thinking, he reached across the very small space between them and patted Jazz's knee. It was like a comforting gesturing, but Prowl was unaccustomed to comforting, and Jazz was not sure he wanted or needed to be comforted. They silently decided that it was an amiable gesture of thoughtfulness co-mingled with thoughtlessness and left it at that.

Jazz shifted his knee away.

Prowl took his hand back and placed it on the controls.

The engines of their tired ship guttered as it was urged to meet the rising wall of the capitol column._ Putter-Poof_ was nearly spent, having worked harder than it ever had in the last few orns. It was beaten and dirty. It's engine rattled. Its exhaust boomed and hissed at intervals. With confirmed news of Shockwave's presence in the south, Prowl and Jazz had been bent on reaching their target. Putter-Poof could only do as they bid, chugging along at an increasingly beleaguered pace. After some effort, some coaxing, one well-placed kick from Jazz to the dashboard, and then some wild apologies when _Putter-Poof_ cut out completely in retaliation, they all managed to safely crest the capitol column and were on their way to the stronghold located at the very center.

"Never do that again," Prowl chided lowly, as if speaking too loudly might offend _Putter-Poof_.

"Ah won't," Jazz replied, his feet safely tucked beneath his seat.

They glided low over the ruins, giving Jazz the best view of everything. Buildings he once knew. Signs that had once been legible, advertising all manner of things from good energon to the company of a good pleasure bot. He remembered the buzz of activity that the nights brought. It was a madness on its own that he had often taken solace in and absorbed into his being as a way to cope. Dancing and drinking and as many drugs as there were stars in the sky. Maybe that's when his habit of creating nameless, faceless smudges of memory out of living bots happened; he used them up and forgot them by the morning like they were worthless, because they had always been worthless to him.

He also remembered what the orns were like in Tyger Pax. The city itself went into recharge; it became quiet and sedate, unextraordinary in every way, or so it would seem. No drinking or dancing or drugs while the sun shone down. For most Paxians, the orns were reasonable, rational, and boring. For Jazz, he _wished_ the orns had been reasonable, rational and boring. Whenever the sun was in the sky, he trained with Xerxia. Always from dawn until dusk. The light brought lessons and pain and a special kind of madness that seemed to bend the very edges of reality until they broke, shattered, and ceased to be, cascading over into a wild storm of things better left unsaid.

Maybe that's why Jazz liked the darkness so much; it had been the lesser of two evils, as far as he was concerned.

He wondered why he was only thinking of this now.

It was another three joors before they managed to cross the immense landscape of the capitol column to the central region. As it turned out, their ship had decided that nothing faster than a delightful glide was going to do in order to admire the passing scenery of death, destruction, and desolation. In the distance, the foreboding shape of the Autobot base slowly formed from the rubble of fallen skyscrapers and toppled spires. The entire compound had been built the exact opposite of Tyger Pax's stereotypical architecture; there was no colour or lights or parties. It was a military installation of squat, heavy-set buildings whose walls were scarred and the dark windows stared out in all directions as unblinking, unfathomable optics. A massive reinforced wall surrounded the compound, similar to the wall that protected Iacon. Large guns were mounted on articulated turrets at measured increments along the top of the wall.

Jazz glanced over at Prowl. "Have ya ever been ta this base before?"

"No," replied Prowl. "I have never had the opportunity, but I have worked with a few tacticians from here. Tyger Pax is no worse than any other, I suppose. The warriors here are renown for their prowess in battle, so I've heard."

"Heard something similar," Jazz shrugged. "Tyger Pax still is the place where circuit-su was invented. It'd be a bit insulting if everyone here sucked at it."

A ghost of a smile appeared at the edges of Prowl's mouthplates. "I can imagine how that might be insulting."

Jazz leaned back in his seat, keeping his optics on the massive shape of the base growing closer. "Ya think there might be someone here who could best meh?"

To this, Prowl canted his head and gave it some sincere thought. On the one hand, it was statistically possible that there could be at least one member of the Cybertronian species who was physically capable of besting Jazz. To think otherwise would be illogical. However, there was a secondary part of himself who did not wish to see Jazz beaten at all, regardless of statistical probabilities.

"Well?" Jazz pressed.

"It is hard to say," Prowl admitted on a sigh.

Silver arms crossed over a broad chest. "You're supposed ta say that no one can beat meh."

Prowl rolled his optics. "I was not aware that I had to lie to feed your ego now."

"Ya don't have ta, but it helps."

Prowl shook his head with a very quiet laugh.

The dash of their ship chirped with the alert of an incoming call. As it did so, two dark shapes arose from the base and flew to intercept them.

Jazz opened the channel, activating a small screen in the console. There was fuzz for a moment, and then a defined shape solidified. It was a minibot of no distinct features. Average blue paint and a generalized design, with a faceplate that exempted most facial features for a very minimalist figuration. He stared at them, and Prowl and Jazz stared right back.

"_Unidentified Autobot vessel, please identify yourselves and confirm Autobot identification codes." _

"This is I-COM 7 from Iacon base. I am Autobot Head Tactical Adviser Prowl," said Prowl, and then listed his identification code.

The communications officer did not look particularly phased with this information, even if it was an unusual circumstance to have any commander visiting other bases without particular cause. The expression remained impressively neutral, even bored. He diligently input the ship's designation and Prowl's codes for confirmation. A moment of silence followed, and then the bot nodded.

"_Adviser __Prowl,__"_ the Autobot acknowledge, and then turned his gaze to Jazz. _"__Codes?__"_

"Eh..." Jazz drew back unsurely. He did not have his own Autobot codes, given that he was not, technically speaking, an Autobot. The only codes he did have were his old Decepticon ones, which would probably get both himself and Prowl shot right out of the sky if he used them. There was always the option of using another Autobot's codes, since he had stolen more than few while unsuspecting Autobots had recharged, but for some reason he was reluctant to falsify himself in this matter.

Prowl came to the rescue a moment later, having realized their setback roughly the same time Jazz did.

"This is Neutral Jazz," he, laying a steady hand to Jazz's shoulder. "Resident Autobot associate of Iacon base. He is here under my authority."

Jazz snorted.

Prowl revved in return. "He is my partner," he amended.

"_Identification__ codes?__"_ the minibot insisted, one optic ridge arching severely.

"You will have to excuse his lack of identification codes," Prowl replied. "It is an oversight of Iacon base. I... we have become so accustomed to his presence that any necessary codes seemed superfluous."

The communications officer did not look impressed. He showed no evidence of recognizing Jazz as the saboteur who had defected from the Decepticons. Not that he did not recognize the designation Jazz or what it meant in association to the designation Prowl, but the officer was a rather well-trained Autobot who did not fluster easy. With a designation like 'Stonewall' one would assume he did not fluster at all. The only thing that was outwardly obvious was the fact that he clearly thought forgetting to give any personnel identification codes was severely reproachable. This was especially the case given Prowl's own high rank, indicating that he should have known better.

"_See __that __upon __your __return __to__ Iacon, __a __set __of __codes __are __generated __for __Neutral __Jazz,__"_ said the minibot. _"__We __are __not __in __the __habit __of __allowing __unidentified __personnel __wander__ in __and __out __of __bases. __We __have __security __precautions __in__ place__ for__ a __reason.__" _

"Acknowledged," Prowl replied tightly. He did not enjoy being spoken to like he was an idiot. "I believe Autobot Scout Hunter contacted you several orns ago to alert Tyger Pax base to our arrival?"

There was the quick clicking of keys while the officer dug through recent communiques. _"__Correct. __An __Autobot __Scout __Hunter __of__ Centaurie__ Tetrax__ outpost __Giga-14__ contacted __this __base __approximately __six __and __a__ half __orns__ ago, __alerting __us __to __the __future __arrival __of __one __small __stealth __ship. __Crew__ consisting __of __two __unidentified __individuals- __one __Autobot __and __one...__"_ there was a pause as the minibot reread the message. He revved in disapproval, and then said, _"__Two __unidentified__ individuals, __one __Autobot __and __one __idiot.__"_

Jazz turned to Prowl. "Your brother is gonna die."

Prowl rubbed the bridge between his optics. "That was extremely unprofessional of him."

The blue minibot sighed, clicking his keyboard once more. _"__Identities__ Autobot__ Prowl __and __Neutral__ Jazz__ have __been __confirmed. __I-COM__ 7,__ you __will __be __escorted __over __base. __Please __use __hanger __2 __for __docking __procedures.__"_ The screen fuzzed over, and then went blank once more.

Jazz kept staring at Prowl. "Hunter is-."

"Yes, I can imagine exactly what you have to say about him," Prowl said, cutting his partner off. "Save it for later."

Jazz, surprisingly, pursed his mouthplates and said nothing. That did not stop him from imaging exactly what he was going to do to the little glitch when he got his claws on him.

The two aerials that had lifted off from the base were now flying alongside _Putter-Poof_. With their guidance, Prowl and Jazz flew over the main courtyards of the base until they were in the section for ships. Several large aircrafts were lined up outside, work crews moving in and out of their insides with various parts and tools for repairs. Prowl steered toward the hanger with large painted glyph for the number TWO above it. The hangar master waved them to the right place to set down in; docking arms snagged them, locking them into place. Prowl shut down the engines. The ship, of course, had to make a few '_Putter-poof!__ Putter-poof!_' noises as it relaxed onto its landing struts. Little puffs of white smoke fluffed out of its exhaust.

Jazz stood up and stretched. "Might as well go face the world."

"Right," replied Prowl, following on Jazz's heels to the hatch of the ship. "It'll just be for the orn and night. We will be gone by tomorrow morning."

"Yeah." Jazz glanced back, his hand on the panel next to the hatch. "About those codes..."

"What about them?" Prowl wondered.

The saboteur's optics grazed the red insignia blazing on Prowl's shoulders, and then he looked away. "Nothing. It'll just be useful ta have them. Never really thought about it until now."

Prowl blinked, and then nodded. "Well, no one really thought of it until now. You are already such a part of Iacon that it seemed redundant to give you codes."

"Ah guess you're right."

The hatch opened and the short ramp unfurled. The hangar master was waiting for them on the floor. He was a jovial-looking mech, not too tall, but happened to make up for his lack of height in the width of his thick frame. Like a wall on legs. His paint was a simple slate grey which blended into the colour of the metal floors and walls around him. He wore a heavy-duty visor that covered most of his faceplate. All that could be seen from beneath it was a flat, broad olfactory sensor and a square jaw.

"Ah, so you be da mysterious bots comin' in!" exclaimed the mech, ushering Prowl and Jazz to the ground with hearty slaps to their backs which sent both of them careening forward. "Ain't it nice ta be meetin' ya, yeah? Been wonderin' who was gonna be coming in from da cold. Poor ship o' yours, though. Poor ship. Looks like its seen better orns."

"Yes, well, it is not a ship meant for extended long-distance travel," Prowl intoned quickly, still a little off-balance from being greeted so forcefully.

"Nah, don't look like it, does it? Eh, just an itty bitty thing. Just like you. Itty bitty things." The hangar master braced his hands on his sides and thrust his gargantuan chest out. "Lucky ya made it here at all."

"We held up well enough," Jazz said, twitching every time the other mech opened his too-wide mouthplates. The accent was terrible. The kind of accent that reminded Jazz of having a sandblaster against his audios. It had to be a Polyhex accent. He _hated_ Polyhex accents.

"Eh? What ya say, eh? Held up? I'll be the judge of that," said the slate-grey mech. He waved over a couple of drones, headed by a tall, slender bot with a classic engineering femme frame. "Live-wire, hey! Hey Live-wire, ya best be lookin' at their ship now. Lookin' like it's gonna fall apart, it does. Heard they gotta have it ready fer tomorrow morning. Ya being busy an' all, ya best be getting ta it now rather than leave it fer later."

"Oh? Well then, it would be best I did get on that now," said the bot called Live-wire, who thankfully did not have a Polyhex accent. Her frame still retained nuances that marked her as an Epilite, from Epsilon. She regarded Prowl and Jazz with a curious tilt of her head, and then back to the hanger master. "Are they the ones we've been waiting for?"

"Looks like it, it does. Them be the ones." Prowl was unfortunately close enough to the hangar master to be amicably slapped on the back a second time. The slate-grey mech did not seem to notice any discomfort as Prowl nearly face-planted into the floor. "They seems like quiet bots, ya know? Barely says anything ta meh since getting off their itty bitty ship."

"I'm sure you haven't given them the chance to say anything, Granite," replied Live-wire with a tinkle-bell laugh. She extended her slender hand to them. "I'm Live-wire, one of the engineers here. I'll happy to inspect your ship before you leave tomorrow. Is there anything in particular you need me to look at?"

Prowl took her hand first, touching his palm to hers as well as bobbing a shallow but polite bow. "I am Prowl, and yes, if you could take a close look at the engines, and the hull, and the flight systems, energy distributors, and..." He trailed off, suddenly aware that he needed to list off nearly everything about the ship.

Live-wire smiled as if she could read his mind. Or, rather, she had a very good set of optics and could clearly see the condition of the ship that had just come in. "Look at everything, I take it?"

"Yes, please," replied Prowl. "Perhaps with special attention to the exhaust? The ship insists on making such unusual noises. It is unbecoming of a stealth ship."

"Unusual noises?" the engineer wondered.

"_Putter-poof...__"_ sighed the ship.

"Like that," Prowl intoned flatly.

"Ah, that is unusual," said Live-wire, tapping her chin lightly. "I'll see if anything can be done." She dispatched a couple of drones to begin a preliminary inspection.

Prowl cleared his vents quietly. "And if it would not be too much trouble to restock it? We're running low on supplies..."

"Yes, of course," Live-wire replied kindly. "Do you have any idea how much you might need, energon-wise? We're a little tight as it is."

Prowl glanced at Jazz, a slight frown on his faceplate. He had no idea how long they might be gone in the poles. How much might they need? It had to be balanced against how much Tyger Pax had in reserve.

"Give us as much as ya can spare," Jazz said.

"I will see what I can do," Live-wire replied, dutifully making note of it. She extended her hand to Jazz. "If he was Prowl, then you must be Jazz, yes? The one who has been helping Iacon all this time?"

Jazz eyed the offered hand carefully. "That depends on who's asking."

"Ah," said Granite, laying a heavy hand to Jazz's shoulder. "Now, ya mind your manners, ya do. Live-wire be going out o' her ways ta be lookin' after ya ship. Least ya could do fer her is be nice. Gotta be here a whole night, hey? Better be makin' friends than enemies."

Jazz, who had never been so openly and honestly chastised before, was first surprised to be spoken to in such a manner by someone other than Prowl, and then suddenly realized that he _was_ being rude to Live-wire. There was no getting around the fact that he was going to be around for the whole orn and night. It did not make sense for him to make things difficult for himself and Prowl during their stay. He found himself touching his hand to the femme's. He didn't bow like Prowl did, although he did incline his head in some kind of acknowledgement.

"Ah suppose Ah'm Jazz," he said.

Prowl stared at him as if he had suddenly grown another head. It was not every orn that he found his partner being openly forthcoming with others. He was not sure if he should consider this progress or a sign of the apocalypse.

"You suppose you're Jazz? I guess that's better than supposing you're someone else." Live-wire gave another tinkle-bell laugh, using her free hand to pat the back of Jazz's hand. "I didn't think you would be so handsome, especially for someone who is supposed to be so... um, versatile. What a lovely frame you have. The engineer you hired to build it must have been an artist." She leaned in, both of her hands holding one of Jazz's. "I've also heard you're a terrible scamp. I would hope you don't plan on giving us any mischief tonight."

There was no fear in her voice as she spoke, just as there appeared to be no fear in Granite. And it wasn't even the kind of fearlessness that came from overcoming an initial unease. Jazz could look straight into the femme's optics and see nothing but a calm cheerfulness. He knew that they must know who he was, they _knew_ he had once been a terrible Decepticon, and yet Live-wire and Granite lived as if he was no threat at all. Maybe they thought he was entirely tame now, safe and contained? Or maybe they were both really, _really_ stupid.

A sharp storm-grey elbow in his side reminded him that he was staring and not saying anything.

"No mischief," he said to Live-wire, and then offered his most rakish grin. "Not any that Ah have planned, anyways." This was followed by his visor flicking up for a mere astrosecond, long enough to wink at her.

Live-wire tilted her head back and laughed with a combination of humour and giddiness.

"Thinks he's a clever bot, he does," Granite chuckled deeply with a humoured look cast in Prowl's direction. He noticed that the tactician did not look too amused with Jazz's charm. Quickly, the subject was changed. "I be imaging ya tired after such a long flight. Ya want real berths ta recharge in, eh?" He tapped the side of his head as he received a new notice. "Seems Rook will be down soon ta be showin' ya ta your quarters."

"Rook?" Jazz wondered, untangling his hands from Live-wire. He took several steps away from her.

"He is the second in command of tactical here," Prowl intoned. "We've spoken a few times in the past."

As if on cue, the doors at the far end of the hangar swished open and a microbot in alt mode zipped in. It paused for a quick look around, and then made a beeline for the small quartet. Once close enough, he snapped into bipedal mode, revealing that he was not a very tall microbot. Not very short, either. He was of average height for the frame type, sporting off-red paint, and was moderately handsome though not overly so.

"Sorry I'm a little late. I hope you weren't waiting long," said Rook, bobbing a bow to both Prowl and Jazz. "I was only told of your arrival just a breem ago." He hopped forward on tiny feet, stretching his arm up to offer his hand. "Prowl, it's nice to finally meet you faceplate-to-faceplate. You're taller than I thought you would be."

"Likewise, though you are as short as I expected," Prowl replied, kneeling to greet the little bot. He then gestured to Jazz. "This is my partner, Jazz. I've mentioned him a few times to you and your commander."

"Yes, of course. Jazz, it's nice to meet you." Rook was not as exuberant offering his hand to Jazz. It was almost a relief to the saboteur to know he still inspired wariness in some bots. Nevertheless, he knelt to the microbot and they touched hands briefly. Once that formality was done, Rook took several steps back so that he could look up at everyone comfortably. Jazz, likewise, took several steps back, but it was mostly to put distance between himself and everyone else, since he was feeling uncomfortable.

"Be gettin' them ta their quarters, will ya, Rookie? They look exhausted," Granite said, making ushering motions with his hands. "Live-wire be lookin' after the ship here, same as me 'til the end of my shift. All's well."

"Right, sure." Rook waved to the bots he had been assigned to show around. "Come on, the barracks are practically on the other side of base. Might as well drive there. It takes too long to walk, and I'd just be stuck running after you anyways."

"You may drive, we'll walk. I believe we both-," Prowl gestured between himself and Jazz, "need a moment of stretch our legs. It's been a very long flight for us."

"Sure, anything you want," said the microbot. He folded back into his alt mode and led the way into the hall, able to keep pace with the much longer strides of the taller bots by putting on an extra burst of speed once in a while.

"You're lucky that Chester heard that it was you who came in; he's got a good things going with Stonewall, the officer who probably busted your ball bearings about your identification codes. Stonewall lets him know if anyone or anything unusual is coming into the base. Chester sent me as soon as he heard about you," said Rook as they made their way through the halls. Tyger Pax's interior was not that different from Iacon's. The metal was of similar colour and quality, the architecture fairly uniform. The only obvious differences between the two bases was the layout and the identities of the personnel populating the halls.

Jazz glanced over at Prowl and gave him a subtle nudge with his elbow. They opened a private channel between them._ "__Chester?__"_

"_My__ counter part__ here,__"_ Prowl replied. _"__The __Paxian __tactical __adviser.__"_

"_But __'_**Chester**_**'**__? What kind of designation is that?__"_ In Jazz's opinion, the designation 'Chester' by all accounts was the dumbest designation he had ever heard of. _Chester_. It sounded like what a damned organic might be named.

"_I've __never __asked __about __it,__" _said Prowl, and then spoke to Rook out loud so the microbot did not become wise to their private conversation."News travels fast here," he commented. "We only arrived a few breems ago."

"What can I say? If we worked as fast as the rumour mill did, the war would be won by now." The microbot snorted. "You know, when the call first came in a couple of orns ago, we thought you were going to be the regular sorts who come and go- Special Ops agents, the occasional spy, some scouts. Blurr was going to come down and show you around. The moment you mentioned you were a commander, well, that changes things." Commanders deserved a certain level of respect and treatment.

"I hope this did not inconvenience you," Prowl intoned.

"Me? No, not really. I was just working on some scheduling issues. I can do that later. Chester would have come, but he's shoulders-deep in work right now." He revved a bit of laughter. "You should consider yourselves lucky. If you were anyone else, you would have been stuck with Blurr."

"I thought you said Blurr was the one who regularly meets incoming bots?" Prowl wondered.

"He is, but it's more like a joke we like to play on everyone." If Rook had been in bipedal mode, he would have shrugged. "Blurr got shot in the head a couple vorns back and it tweaked his vocal processor. Now he's permanently on fast forward. Medics have been trying to fix it, but so far no luck."

"That's very unfortunate," Prowl said with the expected amount of sympathy.

"It is, but you already know that war's not exactly fair," Rook sighed. "He's still a great bot and all, so long as you don't get him talking. It's so quick, sometimes you can't even understand him. Suits him, in a way. He's the fastest thing on wheels I've ever seen, so now he's just fast everywhere else, too."

"I see." Prowl was now mildly appreciative of the special treatment commanding officers received. He did not feel like putting up with the unusual quirks of others. He also felt that Jazz was not up for similar efforts.

"Rook," Jazz suddenly intoned, causing the small tactician to jump.

"Yes?"

"Can we detour ta the med bay?"

"You feeling sick?"

Jazz shook his head. "No, just want ta talk ta the CMO here about some supplies. By the sounds of things, Hunter was a little too vague about what we needed. Ah wanna make sure ya got the supplies before we waste our time."

"Okay, supplies, right. Med bay's closer than the barracks, anyways. Just in the next building, actually." Rook zipped off down the nearest adjoining hall, clearly expecting his company to keep pace.

Prowl and Jazz were left alone long enough for the tactician to lay his hand to the saboteur's wrist, stalling them both at the very edge of the hall. He leaned in close so that no one else might overhear.

"Is everything alright?" he asked.

Jazz raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Ah'm fine."

"You don't seem yourself." He had wondered the same thing before, as they flew over the capitol, but now he was more earnest in his enquiry. There was something bothering his partner, but he could not figure out what. His demeanour had shifted in the hangar, and Prowl did not think it was entirely because the hangar master and engineer were so friendly with him.

Jazz flicked his gaze through the hall as he considered what he might say. He ended up leaning toward Prowl so that they were unusually close for two bots who happened to be partners standing in a hall together. Those who passed them cast arched looks in their direction, and then quietly walked away to attend to their own business.

"Ah got a strange feeling about this place," the silver bot murmured. "Just... strange."

"Could it be because the bots here are nearly as relaxed around you as the ones in Iacon?" Prowl offered, daring a ghost of a half-smile. "I know how much you hate it when others realize you're not as terrible as you make yourself out to be."

"That's just annoying," Jazz replied flatly. "It's something else, Ah think."

"Then maybe being back in Tyger Pax's capitol bothers you more than you care to admit," Prowl said. His free hand came up and brushed the side of Jazz's faceplate. "If it makes you happy, you may keep an optic open for anything unusual."

Still not assuaged by Prowl's words, Jazz nonetheless quietly acquiesced to keep pace to the med bay. Rook did not ask why they had fallen behind. Either he wasn't curious, or he already had an idea why. The way he looked back and forth between the two taller mechs when they arrived at the doors of the med bay, his expression containing something akin to a disturbed realization, he certainly had his own theories that would haunt him for many nights to come.

"What's the CMO here called?" Jazz asked, peering into the small crystalline window that offered a slightly distorted view into the main area of the med bay.

"Grimm."

"...that's not a very cheerful designation."

"She's not a very cheerful femme." Rook took a couple steps back. "If you don't mind, I'll stay out here. Chester and Grimm are on the outs with each other and I don't want to get caught between them."

Jazz and Prowl passed into the med bay on their own, feeling a cold breeze of dread suddenly rush down their backs. The med bay hosted an ominous atmosphere, the kind one might find in a haunted location. The type of haunted location where, if one were to look up its past in an archive, would discover a history of bizarre occult factions worshipping the Fallen and ritual sacrifices, followed by an even more recent bizarre history of mysterious murders where the survivors never knew what the pit happened even though the murder happened in the room right next to theirs. With its dim lights and dreary decor, the med bay did not look like the first place anyone wanted to rush to if they were dying. Conversely, it would be a great place to be if they were already dead. At first glance, it appeared that there was no one on duty. And then a shadow moved at the far end of the room, materializing into the shape of a small femme with paint in a similar shade to Prowl's, if not a shade or two darker. She had weary optics and frowning faceplate, wearing the same worn-down expression every medic gets when they realize that what they do is practically useless in the face of the horrors of war.

"Grimm, I presume?" Prowl wondered.

"Yes," she confirmed in a voice that nearly made both Prowl and Jazz jump out of their armour. They had been expecting a typical femme voice, which was higher in pitch to a mech or minibot's, though not as high as microbots'. What happened to come out of the medic's mouthplates was something akin to the deep, ground-shaking bass of an avalanche tearing down a mountainside while innocent victims screamed in agony as they were buried underneath.

"_...holy__ frag,__"_ Jazz muttered, low enough for only his partner to hear.

Prowl swatted him gently, not taking his optics off of Grimm. "Ah, Grimm, alright, well- I do not know if you have been made aware of this yet, but-."

"Prowl and Jazz," she stated in that same deep, croaking voice. She pointed to each of them correctly as she called their designations. "You just arrived. You're looking for something, or else you wouldn't be here." She blinked slowly, as if the effort to do so was taxing. "No one comes here unless they need something."

The tactician nodded. He wasn't sure how to reply to something like that.

Jazz opened his mouthplates to ask if Grimm's voice was the voice he would hear the orn he died and pit-hounds came to drag his spark into the pit. It honestly sounded like _that_ kind of voice.

Grimm narrowed her gaze on him as if she could read his mind. "Well?"

"EM shielding," Jazz found himself saying. "Ya got any?"

"I might," Grimm said with spark-deep sigh similar to the sound volcanoes made just before they spewed forth nature's fury and killed everyone in its path. "What do you need it for?"

"We need it ta complete our mission," the saboteur said.

Grimm continued to stare at him. "You're probably going south, aren't you? No one needs EM shielding unless they're going to the poles. They're terrible places to live. The electromagnetic fields down there are enough to drive someone crazy." As an afterthought, she said, "I used to live there."

Neither Jazz nor Prowl were surprised.

Grimm frowned deeper, dismissing them with a wave. "Go. I'll find your EM shielding."

"Thank you," Prowl said, offering a shallow bow.

Jazz continued to wonder if Grimm's voice was the auditory manifestation of Death. Or Unicron.

"You're welcome." Grimm continued to frown. "Can't say the shielding will help much. You're just as likely to go into comas and die from exposure." She watched them make their way to the exit. "Have a nice orn."

Rook was still waiting for them in the hall when they walked out.

"Quite a femme, ain't she?" said the microbot with a tilt of his head to the med bay.

"That voice..." Prowl intoned uneasily.

"Like death warmed over, I know," Rook replied, folding down into his alt mode in order to lead the way to the barracks. "I don't think anyone's ever been brave enough to ask her where she got it from."

"She's probably hoarse from sucking the sparks out of living victims and devouring them," Jazz said in a rather nonchalant manner.

"I always suspected something like that," Rook replied lightly.

From the med bay, which was located in a building moderately closer to the barracks, it was a moderate walk to their rooms. Long enough for both mechs to stretch their legs and no longer feel so cooped up. Short enough that they did not feel the need to transform and drive their way through base. The rooms assigned to them were not anything special, consisting of one berth in the corner, a desk and chair pushed against one wall, and a single subspace drawer built into the wall for any occupant who might want to store some personal possessions for the night. There was a massively heavy-duty lock on the drawer, since the occupants who tended to use these specific rooms tended to be nomadic scouts, spies, and Special Ops agents, who generally carried sensitive information that needed to be protected, or they were just too paranoid to leave anything of theirs unprotected. Usually, it was both.

"Since we didn't know a commander was coming in until the very last moment, you get the regular sort of quarters," Rook said apologetically.

Jazz peered into the room that he claimed as his. "It'll do. We're only here for the night."

Prowl nodded. "Yes, we don't need anything fancy."

"In that case, I hope your stay is comfortable," said Rook. "If you need anything, just give me a buzz. Feel free to look around or use the facilities." He eyed Jazz carefully, as if he did not want to extend that particular invitation to the saboteur. There was nothing he could do about the silver bot's questionable presence, so he merely trusted Prowl to keep his company under control, and with that Rook bid them a good orn.

Jazz leaned against the doorway of his room and looked across at Prowl. "What are your plans for the orn?"

"Meditation, mostly," he replied. "I will start with some of the techniques I learned with Yokétron. It has been a while since I've properly meditated."

"Huh," said Jazz, a little surprised by the answer. "Will ya be continuing with your- uh, training?"

"I... think so," Prowl replied, almost at a mumble. He shifted his weight uneasily. "I think I will try later in the orn, when I am better settled. I will work with milder memories first and work my way up to more intense ones."

It was the first time either of them had even vaguely referenced what had happened between them over a fortnight ago. Those memories of Evasia and what they had triggered inside Prowl. Now the tactician kept his gaze on the floor. Jazz found his optics slowly wandering away from his partner. It was funny how everything else in the hall suddenly seemed more interesting than looking at each other.

"I think our mistake last time was the memory you selected," the tactician murmured. "We... I wasn't ready for it."

"Yeah," sighed Jazz.

Prowl shifted his weight again, his gaze flickering up and down the hall to confirm that they were still alone. "Perhaps next time..." He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. "Perhaps next time, we will be better prepared."

Jazz nodded.

The door behind Prowl shushed open and he backed his way inside, lingering in the entryway. "What do you plan to do with the rest of your orn?"

"Look around, Ah guess," Jazz said nonchalantly. "Ah'll find something ta do."

"Don't get into too much trouble," Prowl said with an almost fondness about the words. He'd given the warning so many times, it was nearly a phrase of endearment.

"Ha," said Jazz, his mouthplates curving in his customary devilish grin. "Meh? Trouble? _Never._"


	33. Chapter 33

Here's part two of that chapter that used to be one! 8D

And the reviewers have spoken! It seems that there is such love out there for _Putter-Poof_ that a fanclub has been give birth. And we all have **femme4jack** to thank for taking the playful joke to the next level; she actually created a fanclub! See = putterpoof-fans . livejournal . com (minus the spaces). _Putter-Poof_ has a real live virtual fanclub! Quick, everyone go check it out! 8D And if it actually turns out that there are people on LJ who want to discuss matters of WE, **femme4jack** said she could create a separate account for _War__ Eternal_ lovers (or readers who are biting their nails and going crazy, because I get sick enjoyment out of torturing the fuck out of characters 8D ). I have no clue how to use LJ, but when I do, I'll probably end up chattering on there, and when I chatter, I tend to spit up spoilers and extras and backstories and...stuff. Anyone who has been in contact with me for an extended period of time through PMs or on DA knows I can't keep my mouth shut! XD So, um, quick everyone, to the _Putter-Poof-mobile_!

Anyways, I was so thrilled with the making of this fanclub that I totally double-timed finishing this chapter as a gigantic thanks to **femme4jack** for making my life so much better. This chapter is for you, my dear. ^_^

Also, to the reviewers of the last chapter, all of whom deserve hugs and unicorns, you have my deepest thanks for your love and amazingness. Thank you to **Kida****Bridger,**** renegadewriter8,**** Raining ****Ink,**** SilverIcy,**** Vyxen Skye,**** Jessie07,**** infinitymirrors,**** Alangrieal,**** NightBlooming**** Orchid,**** quasarmom,**** abarai-san,**** evilbunny777,**** White****Aster,**** DemonSurfer,**** Daklog73,**** CNightJoy,**** Darkeyes17, ****Jazz935,**** Fianna9,**** StarscreamII,**** Yuro-Faita911,**** luinrina,**** ChaosGarden, ****phoebe**** turner,**** Faecat,**** LogicIsTheUltimateWeapon,**** Wise ****Crack ****Idiots,**** Camfield,**** Bongo ****Lover,**** katiesparks,**** femme4jack**, and **RococoSpade!** Hugs and unicorns for everyone! Yayyyyyyyyyyy.

**Chapter 33**

"_Ha! __Meh? __Trouble?_ Never_.__" _

And for most of Jazz's orn, that was mostly true.

Sort of.

He didn't cause any of his usual sort of mischief, so that was practically no mischief at all. Not that his promise of 'no mischief' to Live-wire meant anything; it wasn't like his 'good behaviour' was for her. He didn't know the bot, wasn't sure if he liked the bot, and he sure as pit wasn't going to make promises to her, especially the sort he intended to keep. _But_, if by some strange quirk of the increasingly strange universe, Jazz's inactivity could be interpreted as a unconscious bid to not cause mischief, which it most certainly wasn't, but if you _were_ going to interpret it that way, then it would certainly seem like he was keeping his promise.

Pure coincidence, really.

A convenient coincidence that Prowl probably would have enjoyed calculating the statistical probability of.

Of course, this was _Jazz_, and Jazz did not enjoy calculating statistics. Unless it was for cheating a gamble, in which case he was happy to calculate the statistics of him winning. But in this specific case, he enjoyed _other_ things, usually mischief. The kind of mischief that he wasn't doing at the moment. And what possible, proper explanation might there be for this lack of usual mischief that was failing to meet his chaos quota for the orn? Perhaps... perhaps it was merely because he was tired and on a mission and simply did not feel like causing his special brand of trouble.

He told himself it was because he wasn't home-

Whoa. Wait.

Home-?

_When the pit did he start thinking of Iacon as home-?_

Jazz stopped in the middle of the hall so suddenly that he caused the bots behind him to nearly run into him. Thankfully, they had fast enough reflexes to veer to the side. They complained right up until they saw the white visor. News had travelled like lightning about the bots who had just arrived; an Autobot commander and Jazz. Neutral Jazz who would be recognizable by the white visor... and would possible be the last thing anyone ever saw before he killed them dead. Complaints stopped damn fast after they saw the white visor.

"Home," he said, as if to test the weight and breadth and depth of the word. Test how real it felt; what it sounded like in his audios. He rolled it over his mouthplates and tasted its unique flavour. Home was once a bitter word for him; a word that existed in language only, because the physical world held no equivalent for him. Now the word 'home' fell from his mouthplates and... he wasn't about to say something stupid like '_it __tasted __sweet_' because that would probably make him purge, but it certainly wasn't as bitter as he remembered.

Because... because... Aw, damn it, when did he get a home? Homes tied bots down. Homes made bots weak. Homes can be used against bots. A home was where bots gave a damn about each other. Homes... were the places that bots returned to at the end of the orn.

Jazz already knew, and had known for some time (though he was incredibly reluctant to admit it), that he would return to Iacon.

At the end of every mission he completed as a favour for Special Ops, he came back instead of running off. He stayed for orns at a time without chains or cages or force fields to hold him. When he was first going to leave for Shockwave, before Prowl had weaselled his way onto the mission, Jazz had realized he would return to Iacon after the mission. There was no place else he could think of going. One might argue that it was purely because Iacon had Prowl, and Jazz was still rather fixated on having his fun with Prowl, but now that the tactician was with him, there was no reason to go back to Iacon... and yet he still intended to go back. If he survived a second meeting with Shockwave, that is.

Iacon was his home in ways that Kaon and Tyger Pax never had.

"Aw, damn," Jazz sighed. He really didn't need that kind of baggage.

He scrubbed a hand over his faceplate, as if trying to slough off the thought process. He decided that this was not the time to think about things like that. He couldn't afford such distractions. He'd let the thought get lost inside his head for the time being, and when there came a moment when he could give it his full brooding condemnation, he would summon the thought back and curse it thoroughly.

For the time being, Jazz would simply say that because he wasn't 'home', because he didn't have the usual sort of bots he took the most joy in bothering, there simply wasn't enough incentive for him to get into his usual sort of mischief. And no, he certainly was not making excuses for himself. Excuses were for lesser bots. It was _pure __fact_ that he had no incentive; without Ratchet to rage, Ironhide to bellow, or Mirage to coldly seethe in his personal pit of glitchy half-bitteriness... the incentive for Jazz to cause trouble just wasn't there. Which, in a sense, was lucky for the bots of Tyger Pax. No Autobots spontaneously found their schedules rearranged. No one suddenly discovered their valuables missing. Recharging bots were left in peace, rather than to be startled awake with the terrifying realization that someone was standing at the end of their berths.

The only trouble Jazz caused was the inadvertent kind. The kind that clogged up halls and encouraged nervous shoving while curious bots craned to get a good look at the terrifying ex-Decepticon they now had in their midst. As if he were some kind of freakish sideshow to be ogled, not a truly dangerous threat who could easily erase their existences from the surface of the planet. Fearlessness similar to that of Live-wire and Granite, though far more irritating on a level that Jazz did not even think it possible for Cybertronians, as a species, could sink to.

It wasn't likely that the bots of Tyger Pax had any better visual recognition skills than anyone else, but they could damn well spot the one bot who didn't have blue optics. The one that didn't have an active Autobot signature modulator. The silver mech who was wandering around without any distinct purpose. _The __bot __that__ didn't__ belong._ Jazz was singled out in a way that had never bothered him in Iacon. It was a distinct awareness that he was not like the bots around him. He was better than all of them, sure, but even in Iacon he had had more than just Prowl to associate with. The twins were like him. Firestar was almost tolerable... if she kept her mouthplates shut. Jazz was even starting to appreciate Ratchet in a mutual, wholly disturbing, sort of way.

Here, there was nothing.

He was as alone in Tyger Pax now as he had always been in the past. None of the Autobots were apparently brave enough to approach him. That suited Jazz fine. He didn't feel like holding a meaningful, or even a meaningless, conversation with anyone. What did happen to bother Jazz even more then their relentless staring was the fact that when they decided to talk about him, they didn't lower their voices.

Now, after touring his way through the base and finally getting fed up with the staring, Jazz hoped to take refuge at a solitary bench in a small open courtyard. The acoustics of the place made it unnaturally quiet; probably a courtyard meant for Autobots to escape into for a bit of respite. The mists had yet to burn off outside, so it was a grey mid-morning with a cold dampness in the air. Maybe the weather was off-putting enough to discourage bots from following him around? Unfortunately, where Jazz went, his so-called oglers followed. Bots who did not seemed to have any other purpose in the world today other than to shuffle around the halls, watching every move Jazz made with wide optics, even as he retreated to the half-concealed bench behind the solid column of an archway. The bravest bots actually came into the courtyard with the saboteur, though they remained at a designated distance. They turned to each other and chattered excitedly.

Jazz found himself becoming increasingly short of patience. Not just the regular kind of short of patience either, but the special kind where he could actually feel his hard earned sanity starting to slip into the void and all the pleasant thoughts he used to think, like _How__ Many __Bots__ Can __I__ Kill __Before__ Anyone__ Notices...?_ started to come back. He narrowed his gaze on each offending Autobot and quickly decided the best way to dispatch each one quickly, efficiently, and, of course, with the greatest amount of spark-searing pain. Since none of them seemed overly intelligent, nor appeared to have any significant purpose to their lives other than to be the current targets of Jazz's wrath, he would probably be doing someone a favour by culling a few. As if the universe agreed with him, there was a lovely storage room in the next hall where he could hide the corpses.

"Excuse me," said someone from the back of the crowd, sounding curiously bewildered to find a crowd gathered in the middle of nowhere. "Um, excuse me? Coming through-."

"Hey!"

"Sorry, I didn't see you there." A mech shuffled his way to the front of the crowd, his gaze focused on the ground in case any other microbots decided to get in the way of his feet. When he finally managed to squeeze his way out into the open, he stumbled a step, looked around the courtyard, and then spotted Jazz half-concealed behind the pillar. He cast his optics around again to see if anyone else was lurking, but aside from the random gathering of off-duty bots, he saw no one. Jazz was not looking in the direction of the new bot, but he felt the approach.

"Is something going on out here?" asked the newcomer.

Jazz still did not look over at him. "Not as far as Ah know," he replied flatly.

"Oh, well that's strange," said the bot. "Did you know there was a crowd over there?"

"Couldn't miss it."

"They seem really interested in something."

"Ah bet they are, the little fraggers," Jazz growled.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Hmmm." There was a bit of shuffling as someone shifted their weight. "Do you mind if I sit with you? I know there are other benches, but the crowd is freaking me out. If I sit alone, they might think they can sit with me."

"Go ahead, sit down," Jazz chuckled, a little darkly but nonetheless with an edge of humour. The bot had no clue who he was talking to, which was a pleasant change from the morning he had been having. Sometimes a little anonymity went a long way.

"Thanks." With a grateful sigh, the bot sat down. "Things like this just remind me of why I prefer working alone. Primus bless the orn I got into Intelligence & Espionage. I'd much rather be out there than in here. It seems seems like when a bunch of bots gather in one place, the intelligence of the whole lot starts going down."

"Ah've noticed that too." Jazz shifted in his seat, not comfortable with keeping his back to the newcomer. He turned enough to keep the Autobot in his periphery, while keeping the crowd in his sights. He deemed the crowd the greater threat. Not because there were more of them, because Jazz was quite confident he could kill them all before they could even assemble properly to defend themselves, but because that uneasy feeling of his was starting to return. The off-and-on feeling of being watched in a manner that was not dissimilar to being hunted.

His company leaned in. "Hey, maybe you might be able to tell me something... Have you heard anything about Jazz being here?"

"Huh?" Jazz said, his current train of thought interrupted, which was a shame- he'd been debating whether or not murdering his company would be enough to drive his so-called hunter out of hiding to face him head-on.

The other bot took Jazz's exhalation as minor ignorance. "You know, that bot who defected from the Decepticons over a vorn ago? He works in Iacon now with their Head Tactical Adviser, what's-he-called?"

"Prowl?"

"Yeah, that's the one. I just got in a joor ago and that's what I've been hearing, that Jazz and Prowl are here. Wild, huh?"

Jazz smirked. "Yeah, wild."

"I wouldn't have believed it myself it if I didn't hear it from the Master Spy here during my debriefing." He cleared his vents nervously. "Maybe it's just me, but I don't think they should be letting someone like that lose on base. Jazz, I mean. It's dangerous, don't you think?"

"Oh?"

"Well, yeah, I mean...There are dangerous bots here who hold some pretty deep grudges. I don't imagine that any of them would take kindly to an ex-Decepticon roaming around, especially someone like Jazz. If half the things they say about him are true, then there are bots here who are probably looking for revenge." He sighed. "I've read the reports and it's damn obvious that Jazz has been helping us. He's done some horrible things, but so have all of us by now. I say that if he's trying to be Neutral and trying to help us, then maybe we should try trusting him as well. At the very least, assign him protection while he's here."

Jazz nearly laughed. "Ah think someone like Jazz can take care of himself."

There came a humoured snort. "Yeah? What makes you say that?"

The saboteur turned to fully face his company, revealing the white visor that marked him as one of the very few Neutrals on base. One of the few Neutrals who happened to be infamously known as _Jazz_.

The Autobot's optics widened considerably when it finally clicked who he was talking to. "Oh," he said. _"__Oh...__"_

"Yeah," replied Jazz, now grinning. Funny how all those previous thoughts of a pleasant mid-orn massacre were suddenly gone in the face of this one bot's shock. Much to his surprise, his company did not remain shocked for long. There was a slow blink, another, he shifted backwards, and then he laughed...albeit a bit nervously.

"You, um, could have told me who you were _before_ I made a fool of myself," said the bot, rubbing the back of his neck in a distinctly sheepish manner. Now that Jazz was facing him properly, he saw that the bot was typical for a mech frame made for spying, with a sleek shape that exempted most decorative features. The contours hinted that his alt mode was an impressive one, made for hard, fast driving. It was hard to tell what his true paint colour was seeing as he was currently covered in a non-reflective brown grease paint which would have helped him blend in out in the wildlands wherever he had been sent to gather information.

"Where would be the fun in that?" Jazz wondered lightly. He found himself offering his hand. If you asked him why he was offering his hand, he wouldn't have been able to tell you. "Jazz."

The other bot laughed again. "I know that _now._" He touched his hand to Jazz's briefly. "I'm Punch."

"Alright, Punch," Jazz chuckled. "Just ta let ya know, Ah don't need no security detail tailing meh," he said. "Ah may not be Decepticon no more, but that sure as pit don't mean Ah've lost mah skills."

"I guess not," replied Punch, easily and agreeably. He was not about to object to anything now that he knew who the silver bot actually was. He inclined his head to the crowd. "At least I know why there's random crowd over there, huh?"

"Yep."

Punch, who was relatively good at his function as a spy, detected the slight lace of irritation in the saboteur's tone. "You know, if you don't like them staring at you, you can always give them the slip. Switch your optics blue and turn on an Autobot signal modulator and you'd blend right in."

Jazz inclined his head as if considering the option, and then said, "No."

"No?" Punch pursed his mouthplates, unable to fathom why not. He didn't bother to press the matter, given that he was not prone to purposeful stupidity; he knew very well that outright irritating someone like Jazz was incredibly stupid.

Jazz shifted in his seat. He didn't need to give an explanation to a virtual stranger, of all things, but he said, "It's the principle of it."

"Ah," said Punch, pretending to understand. Or maybe he did understand. Barring his fantastic initial ignorance while first meeting Jazz, he seemed like a clever bot. "Principles are good," he said. "You know a bot's good when he sticks to the right set of principles. You're not Autobot, so why should you be forced to pretend you're one?" He smiled. "I completely respect that."

Jazz suddenly recalled a moment which seemed like forever ago, in which he had been demanding respect of the Autobots, and Prowl had admitted to always respecting him. And now it seemed he had the respect of one more.

Punch revved quietly, this time not able to interpret the look Jazz was giving him.

"Ah think Ah'm gonna go," said Jazz, rising from his seat. "It was... nice talking ta ya."

"Same here." Punch replied, hopping to his feet. "How about I walk you out? Not that you need me to walk you out, but I- uh, have to go to the wash racks anyways." He gestured needlessly to his grease paint.

"Sure." Jazz turned directly toward the crowd instead of heading for one of the alternate exits. He was not in the habit of retreating from anyone, not even the dumbstruck crowd and the possible threat of a stalker lurking within it. Punch followed at a pace behind. At their approach, the chattering of the crowd became even more pronounced, even as they jostled to get out of the way.

"_Here he come! Here he comes!" _

"_Oh my Primus, get out of the way!"_

"_Damn, he's gorgeous." _

"_How come all the gorgeous ones are psycho?" _

Punch quietly and discreetly cleared his vents, though it suspiciously sounded like laughter. Jazz revved, but it did not sound like laughter. It sounded like the warning growl of a beast before it went berserk and slaughtered everyone in the vicinity. One poor bot who had the misfortune of catching Jazz's searing glare was quickly reduced to a pile of shaking bolts. Had he kept Jazz's glare any longer, he might have been reduced to ashes.

After that, the way cleared much more quickly.

"_I__ heard __he__ sold __his __spark __to __Unicron,__" _someone murmured furtively while shooing several bots out of the way.

"_There's no such thing as Unicron!" _

Someone laughed. _"__He __doesn't__ look__ so __dangerous-__ACK!__" _

A flash of silver streaked in front of the speaker's optics. A shallow slash appeared across his faceplate. A dagger that had just flown past his faceplate embedded itself deeply in the wall next to his head. There was a few astroseconds as bots realized what had just happened. Soon after, there was a mad dash for everyone to get the pit out of the way. Quite frankly, no one wanted to get a dagger to the faceplate. The one who the dagger had been meant for failed to move, currently in shock with his legs frozen in place. Jazz approached at a smooth gait, clearly not troubled by the mass panic he had just inspired.

"Excuse meh, mah hand slipped," he said, patting the bot's cheek over the new slash dissecting it. "Ya might want ta get that checked out." He then tugged his dagger from the wall and walked away without looking back.

"That," Punch said as they reentered the building, "was terrifying."

"Thank you," Jazz replied as if he had just received a grand compliment. He turned to go his own way, intent on leaving Punch behind, but the Autobot seemed to have other plans. Before Jazz was out of reach, he touched the saboteur's wrist to gain his attention. The silver mech paused, turning to regard his company.

Punch quickly drew his hands to his sides. "Look, um, I'm not saying this to be ominous or anything, but be careful, okay? A stunt like that may have just created more enemies for you than friends."

"Ah have a nasty habit of doing that," Jazz replied. He knew exactly what he had been doing when he let that dagger fly. He felt the optics of an unseen hunter on him. Inciting a little more rage by one needless attack was one way to draw the bot out into the open. Too bad it didn't work. Yet.

Punch pursed his mouthplates, but knew he had nothing more to say. He tilted Jazz something like a half-smile that was a little shaky around the edges, and then he left.

Jazz sighed, casting his gaze around the windowed corridor that was now conspicuously empty. His target was obviously not going to lurk around in the open. He would have to bide his time before he let the hunter become the hunted. Even if he had given a meaningless promise to Live-wire for no mischief, he reminded himself that he had specified no _planned_ mischief. The spontaneous kind was still an option. So he decided that as soon as the opportunity arose, he was going to have to spontaneously kill someone.

He was looking forward to it.

Having toured the base all morning and no longer having anything interesting to distract himself with until evening fell, he sighed and returned to the barracks to wait until the hunt began. He did not go to his own room; he went to the room across from his. Prowl was exactly where Jazz expected him to be. He sat on the floor in the center of his room, legs crossed and optics closed. Jazz hauled himself up on the berth and stretched out comfortably. He assumed that he was invited in because the tactician did not tell him to get the frag out.

After a silent moment, Prowl peered over his shoulder. "You haven't been gone long," he observed.

"Bored," shrugged Jazz.

"Would you like to meditate with me?"

"Ah think Ah'll recharge. Wake meh when it's evening."

"Alright."

Prowl did not bother to question why Jazz was opting to recharge somewhere other than his own assigned room. It had been nearly over a fortnight since they had left Iacon, and they were now so accustomed to the routine of recharging in each other's company that it seemed perfectly reasonable that Jazz would rather recharge in Prowl's presence than do so alone. It offered more protection than what a single locked door could. So Jazz crossed his arms behind his head and settled in for a comfortable nap. Within moments, he was cycling air through his vents peacefully.

Prowl returned to meditating for the rest of the afternoon. Mindful of his resting company, he tested his emotional capacities with mild memories only, and kept his vocal processor shut off so as not to voice any discomfort. At one point, approximately two joors after Jazz had fallen into a light doze, Prowl's internal struggle faltered. The memory was of watching a victim of a driving accident die; acid rain had slicked the roads that orn and one driver had lost control, veering off a suspended highway and plummeting too far down for anyone to live long after impact. Prowl had arrived on scene in time to watch life fade from the bot's optics. He had witnessed the accident early in his bid to learn emotions, and it had struck him how senseless such a death was. A waste of a perfectly good spark for nothing.

In the present, as he dealt with the lingering guilt and remorse for that one bot, Jazz suddenly half-roused himself from recharge. He rolled over, first accidentally slapping Prowl in the side of the head, and then laying his hand to the top of Prowl's cranial crests. A gentle magnetic pulse activated. Several moments later, Jazz's hand remained on top of Prowl's head, and the tactician realized that his partner had fallen back into recharge. Prowl, now soothed, did not see the point in moving, so he spent the rest of the afternoon with Jazz's hand on his head like a very odd hat.

In the mid-afternoon, there came a knock at the door, which ushered in Tyger Pax's Head Tactical Adviser. Chester was a minibot of colony design, mostly green with tartan accents on his long audio crests, forearms, and shins. Prowl invited the commander in, though Chester stopped when he saw that Prowl had company... and where that company's hand was currently resting.

"Am I interrupting something?" wondered the Paxian commander, slightly perplexed to see Prowl on the floor with Jazz's claws atop his head.

"Not at all," Prowl assured. "I am meditating. He is recharging."

"I can see that," Chester observed with slight bemusement.

Prowl sat straight, managing not to dislodge Jazz's hand. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Just taking a moment to see how you were settling in," said Chester.

"Adequately," replied Prowl.

Chester nodded, having assumed as much. "You are aware that Jazz spent the morning terrorizing the Autobots here, yes? Not that I pay much attention to rumours, but word is he attacked someone with a dagger."

Unsurprised, Prowl inclined his head. "That does sound like something he would do."

"Quite."

"May I posit that he was most likely provoked? Jazz has been on edge since we arrived, and I cannot imagine the Autobots here taking lightly to his presence." He paused, aware that it sounded like he was making excuses for his partner's obvious violence streak. Quickly, he said, "Not that I approve of such behaviours, you understand. It is simply that I have become accustomed to them-."

"I imagine you would have to be," Chester said with an air that clearly indicated he was relieved not to have been given the burden Prowl had. Things were much simpler when you didn't have a psychopath running around.

"Are you here to reprimand him?" Prowl asked cautiously.

The commander laced his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. "Under normal circumstances, it would fall to me to enforce the rules and reprimand those who do not obey them... however, all I have heard thus far is rumours. No one has directly come forward to report an assault, and as it stands, I would prefer that consulting Grimm to see if anyone has come in for medical treatment remain as a last option." Chester arched his optics ridges. "I cannot reprimand someone on the grounds of rumour alone, so it would seem your partner there is as free as the sky."

"So it would seem," Prowl replied evenly.

"As a matter of course, I would suggest you mention to him that keeping the peace around here is my top priority and I would hate to lock him in the brig, which would inevitably delay your mission."

Prowl inclined his head, though he did not voice his thoughts on the matter. Having Jazz locked in the brig would delay nothing; the saboteur would simply unlock himself and walk out the moment it became convenient for him.

"Tell him when he comes online, will you?" Chester said with a wry shake of his head. "He looks rather peaceful at the moment."

"I will do that, though I think I should point out that appearances can be deceiving," Prowl said with a nearly invisible half-smile curving his mouthplates. "He looks peaceful, but he is rather dangerous regardless the state he is in." This statement was marred by the fact that he said it with someone's hand still laying on his head.

Chester nodded mildly. He had known Prowl for as long as Prowl had been the Iacon Tactial Adviser, and for that time he had never known the mech to ever smile, and it was generally a cold orn in the pit before Prowl freely complimented someone without it being a roundabout statement through facts.

"Interesting," said the commander.

Prowl blinked. He did not think he had said anything 'interesting'.

Chester smiled, because he now saw what Rook had been describing earlier in the orn. Prowl was not the same mech they had been coordinating with for these past few vorns. His changed qualities did not come out so acutely during conference calls, but to meet with him physically underscored the fact that he was... different.

Jazz, for that matter, was not the bot they were expecting at all.

"If that is all?" Prowl pressed, clearly at a loss to understand Chester's staring.

"Yes, that's all. If you'll excuse me?" The minibot backed his way out the door and was gone.

Prowl stared at the closed door for a few brief moments. "What a strange bot," he said with a shrug.

As evening settled, the tactician roused Jazz as promised. The saboteur snapped online, looking perplexed to find where his hand had ended up. Prowl tried to offer an explanation, but the truth sounded just as bizarre as fiction, so he mumbled something else. When asked why Prowl had not simply removed Jazz's hand after he had been assaulted, Prowl failed to find any logical explanation. For the convenience of them both, they decided to file the incident under 'curious happenings to be commonly dismissed' and tried to pretend it did not happen.

"Ya gonna come with meh ta get some energon?" Jazz asked as he popped to his feet.

"I'm fine," said Prowl. "I want to stay here and continue with my work. I'll get some energon later."

"How about Ah get some for ya? Ah'll bring it back after Ah get some things done," Jazz offered, shuffling around Prowl on his way to the door.

"That would be nice," Prowl said with a smile. "Before you go, Chester stopped by earlier-."

"The Adviser here?"

"Yes, him. He mentioned an assault that took place in the morning."

Jazz leaned against the doorway pondering for a moment. "Oh, that," he finally said with a dismissive air. "That wasn't an assault. Ah tickled the bot. If Ah assaulted him, he'd be dead."

Prowl sighed, rubbing the bridge between his optics. "If that's the case, please don't tickle anyone else tonight."

A smirk appeared. "Why? Ya jealous?"

"Not nearly as much as you'd want me to be," Prowl replied with a roll of his optics. "I get _tickled_ by you often enough back in Iacon."

Jazz snorted. "Well, good thing Ah don't have no plans for tickles or giggles tonight. You'll just have to live without."

"How will I ever survive?" Prowl drawled dryly. "Go already before you get caught in the evening rush. Remember that I like my energon-."

"Plain, room-temperature, medium-grade," Jazz rhymed off with ease. "You're getting one with filter cleaner in it 'cause the stuff we've been drinking lately is gumming up our filters. Ah can hear ya gurgling at night."

"Fine, with filter cleaner if they have it, but not too basic. My tanks aren't configured to handle high pH."

"Consider it done." With a wink, the silver mech eagerly swung into the hall. He banked left, cutting through the mild shift-change crowd. Most bots jostled out of his way, looks of terror rushing across their faceplates. Jazz could hear them muttering. He heard mentions of his earlier escapade in the courtyard. It was rather satisfying to know that a such a simple intimidation technique could inspire such feared respect. Too bad something like that wouldn't happen in Iacon. If Jazz started throwing daggers around there, the only thing that would happen is Ratchet might throw a tantrum back at him, but only if Jazz managed to do some real damage. Bots were just too damned used to him back h-

Ho-

Hooooooooo-

Home.

There, he said the H-word.

Deciding that he would collect the energon first before he invested himself in the hunt, Jazz made his way toward the energon distribution room he had passed during his early tour of the base. It was a moderately sized room with no windows but clever lighting which gave the impression of outdoor light. There was a collection of tables scattered around, though not nearly enough to accommodate everyone who came in for refuelling. One wall was lined with dispensers. He noted that Live-wire was in line; she spotted him and quickly waved him over. No one said anything about him cutting in line.

"Fancy meeting you here, dearspark," said Live-wire as she threaded her arm through his and patted him kindly as if they were close friends. "How have you been enjoying Tyger Pax?"

"Been recharging for most of it," Jazz replied mildly.

"That's not what I heard," Live-wire laughed. "Something about you scaring the slag out of some bots...?"

Jazz cleared his vents, and he could not help but notice how sheepish the noise sounded. "Alright, there was that."

They shuffled forward as the bot at the head of the line got his energon and walked away.

"Cheeky thing," teased the femme. "I think there are more than a few Autobots around here who need a little scaring from time to time. You're a good bot for the job."

Jazz nodded silently.

Live-wire leaned against his side. "You'll be happy to hear that I'm finished checking your ship, restocked and everything."

"Any trouble?"

"None at all," she replied cheerfully. "Some wear and tear in the usual ways, but nothing that couldn't be patched up."

"And the noises?"

The femme paused, pursing her mouthplates. "Now, that's the thing, isn't it? My drones and I checked the ship over from engine to aft and we didn't find anything. It seems I-COM 7 just wants to make noises." She patted Jazz on the forearm. "I wouldn't worry about it, dearspark. I've been an engineer long enough to know that some machines just have personalities of their own. If you find that the noise is compromising the nature of its missions, have your engineers in Iacon decommission the ship."

"Ah'll consider it," Jazz replied lowly. He did not think _Putter-Poof_ would appreciate being decommissioned.

They shuffled forward again, and this time they were at the head of the line. Out of habit, Jazz automatically stepped forward to take his share of energon, but just as quickly he stepped aside to let Live-wire have her turn first. She patted him on the arm again as if he was just some bashful little youngling. Once her cube was filled, Jazz took out two of his own from subspace and filled them both. One for himself, which was saturated with arsenic, hot as it would pour without igniting, and towing the line between regular energon and high-grade. Prowl's was plain, room-temperature, medium-grade with a dash of filter cleaner so he would stop gurgling at night.

"Thirsty tonight?" Live-wire asked with an arched optic ridge.

"Not all for meh," Jazz explained, sealing the cubes and slipping them away into subspace for safe keeping. "One's for Prowl. Ah said Ah'd get him some."

"You and Prowl must be very close as partners, yes?" Live-wire said lightly. They shuffled away from the front of the line so the next bot could get their energon. The dispensation room was crowded with bot who were getting off their shift or just about to go on, all of the jostling for space. Jazz cut himself an easy path, seeing as very few bots wanted to come in contact with him. Live-wire cheerfully moved behind him, content to have someone to clear the way for her.

"We work well together," Jazz replied over his shoulder, and he surprised himself with the honesty of the statement. He and Prowl worked surprisingly well together; Jazz worked better with Prowl than he had ever worked with anyone in his life, which was a bit of a stupid statement, considering that he had never worked with anyone all his life.

There came a quiet tinkle-bell laugh, Live-wire's optics glittering as she regarded the silver minibot. "So, if I were to invite you back to my room to get to know you better...?"

"Ah have things ta do tonight," Jazz replied a little too quickly.

"I see," said the femme, quickly coming to her own conclusion of the matter. She did not look disappointed to be turned down; indeed, she knew of Jazz's less-than-reputable tendencies and she was not of the mind to put herself in danger like that. She had just been curious to see what would happen if she invited him. Now she had an answer.

Jazz found himself frowning. "It's not what ya think."

"No?"

"No." They found a spot by the far wall which offered enough space for them to stand comfortably together. Jazz met the bright gaze of the femme; she was as tall as he was, though far more slender in build. He opened his mouth to give her a better explanation, and then realized two things; one, his actual plans for tonight consisted of hunting down whoever was watching him, and he had every intention of killing his stalker, and two, he didn't owe Live-wire any explanation at all. She could damn well think what she wanted; after this mission, it wasn't likely Jazz would ever see her again.

With those two reasons now solidified in his mind, Jazz ended up staring at the femme until she shivered and looked away. Inexplicably, he felt bad when she ducked her head

"Prowl an' Ah are just partners," Jazz murmured. That explanation he _didn't_ owe Live-wire was coming out anyways, at least partially. "We wouldn't be good together otherwise. He's got his issues and Ah've got mine."

To this, Live-wire peered up with a kind expression. "I'm no expert in your situation," she said, and now her voice was cautious but still laced with lingering friendliness. "I don't know what the two of you have been through or what you've done, but..." She took his hand and once again patted it very gently. "I get the feeling that it's _because_ of the issues you two have that you work so well together."

Jazz stared at her, then stared down at the two small hands that held one of his. He looked back up at her, and she quirked a smile.

"Maybe I'm wrong," she said with a shrug. "But I really hope I'm right. Goodnight, dearspark." She let go of his hand and merged with the crowd, letting herself get jostled around until she disappeared completely into the rush-hour madness.

Jazz watched the femme go for longer than he knew he should have. When he looked away, he found himself looking down again at the hand she had patted. He could not decide if he was disturbed that someone kept treating him with such easy familiarity, or if he was disturbed that he was getting used to being treated as such. As he usually did when he found his thoughts clouded by something he could not control, Jazz tossed it away to brood over later.

He left the dispensation room and took a sharp turn down the hall to return to the barracks and deliver Prowl's energon. Turning the corner into the barracks, he discovered the hall empty. Bots were now active on their evening shift or else choosing to spend their evening doing something else other than skulk in their quarters. What was of particular interest was that the hall was not as quiet as it should have been. Jazz heard scuffling from behind the walls, grunting, and a loud bang as a heavy body hit the floor. One might assume it was the sounds of some very ardent lovers, but Jazz knew better. He also recognized the voice of one of the bots grunting.

"Damn it, Prowl!" he snarled, feet pounding down the hall. The door hissed open before he even made it to his destination; a frame flew out, hitting the opposite wall and slumping to the floor. The bot was not Prowl, but looked as if he had been thoroughly thrashed.

"Prowl!" Jazz called, skidding into the doorway of the room.

"How nice... of you- to join me-!" Prowl grunted, currently defending himself against two more attackers, a titanic Decepticon and an Autobot minibot of roughly Jazz's height and mass. There was a third figure in the room lurking on the sidelines, waiting for Jazz to show up. The moment Jazz stuck his head in, the third bot attacked.

"Watch out!" Prowl bellowed.

Jazz jerked back as he sensed movement from his periphery. He raised his arms in defence, managing to block the lightning strike to his head. Another strike came, and then another, each as fast as the first. The sound of metal against metal rang down the hall. Jazz stumbled backwards, trying to get out into the open where he could launch a counterattack. Prowl's room was too small and too crowded at the moment.

"Thought ya was never gonna show up," said his opponent as he continued his assault. There was a distinct twang to his voice- not familiar, but annoying enough that Jazz wanted to punch him in the mouthplates for it.

"It's called being fashionably late," Jazz grunted.

"Ah call it your funeral." Another series of pounding strikes landed. The Decepticon's arms were clearly augmented for this kind of attack; prolonged lightning-fast strikes with enough force behind them to crack armour. Jazz felt the metal of his arms beginning to buckle inward.

Tired of being on the defensive, the saboteur jumped backwards so that the next strike meant for him did not land where it was supposed to. With too much momentum behind the attack, the other bot overbalanced. Jazz rushed him in that moment, immediately grabbing the wrist of the arm that was still extended. He twisted it around until he heard a satisfying snap, and then the furious howl of the bot who just realized his wrist had been broken.

"Awww, did Ah do that?" Jazz asked cheerfully. He twisted the arm back until the elbow snapped just like the wrist. There came an even louder bellow the second time. "Yep, Ah guess Ah did."

"You fragger!" spat the Decepticon, swinging around with his free arm to land a hard punch. Jazz's olfactory sensor went skewed, the metal stretching and crunching. In return, he slashed his opponent across the faceplate with his claws, catching one optic and tearing it out. He laughed when he realized the prize he had caught, dancing away and swinging it around by the trailing wire.

The expression on the Decepticon's faceplate was a mix of horror and rage. Energon oozed out in a thick river.

"Oops," said Jazz, grinning.

"Don't think Ah can't kill you with one optic."

They rushed each other.

The Decepticon's arms were not the only thing augmented for speed; he ran like a blur, catching Jazz off-guard. The saboteur suddenly found himself caught in an uppercut, a right hook, and then a powerful kick in the side that sent him flying into the wall. The Decepticon wasted no time, jumping on him and proceeding to beat the slag out of Jazz. Jazz raised his arms again to defend his head, but at the last moment he shoved his hands into his attacker's faceplate and released an EM pulse powerful enough to repulse the bot.

Jazz bucked the bot up, and then shoved him aside. They rolled, and then it was Jazz's turn to start beating the slag out of the Decepticon.

"Who sent you!" Jazz snarled, landing a heavy jab to the Decepticon's blind side. All he got was a gob of energon spat at him as an answer. Jazz backhanded him violently. "Don't think Ah won't kill ya."

"Ah ain't afraid ta die," said the Decepticon. He moved too fast for Jazz to counter; one dagger-like strike landed in the center of Jazz's chest, denting the armour inward. The shock of the impact was enough to allow the Decepticon to roll away, springing into a crouch. "Ya don't think Ah wasn't specially chosen ta take ya out? You're a thorn in Megatron's side and it's time ta pluck ya out."

"Oh wow, Ah can't believe how _not_ scared Ah am," Jazz sneered.

"If ya were smart, ya would be," the Decepticon leered. "Ya got no one coming ta your rescue. Rampage will finish your little Auto-buddy off in there and then he'll be out here ta help meh take ya apart. Not that Ah need help."

Jazz laughed cruelly. "Really? 'Cause it kinda looks like ya do."

"Ya ain't lookin' close enough." Something unfolded from his back, curling up over his shoulders. Jazz got the impression of a long, arching tail of some sort that rose over the bot's back. It's end narrowed into a long, serrated tip that shone a dirty blue from dried energon under the hall lights. "They don't call meh _Quickstrike_ fer nothing."

"Damn," Jazz cursed, dodging to the side as that tail aimed for his spark.

"Jazz!" Prowl cried out, able to see what was happening but unable to do anything about it. He ducked away from the fist that was meant for his faceplate, only to have the fist of the second bot land directly on his audio crest. A scream of feedback rang inside his head. He felt sparks ignite inside the damaged structure, burning; a stream of black smoke funnelled out.

Rampage loomed over Prowl's form, reaching out to grasp the tactician by the top of his head and ram his faceplate into the wall.

"Worry about yourself," said the hulking Decepticon. "Jazz will be dead soon anyways."

"Don't count on it," Prowl spat, even as the room spun from cranial damage.

Jazz's voice rose from the hall- "You did _not_ just scratch mah paint-!"

Prowl found himself smirking, despite the fact that he was having his faceplate smashed.

There came a sudden scream. A terrible, high-pitched scream that nearly drown out the screeching noise of someone having a limb ripped from their frame. A brutal amputation where all the neural wires were left on to feel every moment it. Squirming wires and all sorts of twitching internals torn out. Sliced through. Diced up. Agony like acid.

This was followed by the sound of Jazz laughing while he beat Quickstrike with his own severed tail until the mech stopped moving.

The Autobot traitor that lurked next to Rampage paused at the sounds of the beating in the hall.

"Boss?" he intoned, looking worriedly in Rampage's direction.

"Never mind him. He knew what he was getting into when he decided to take on Jazz," Rampage rumbled, proceeding to pick Prowl up by the neck and swing him bodily into the wall until the tactician's insides were rattling and the wall itself started to cave in.

"Prowl!" Jazz yelled, rushing into the room. He brought the Autobot down first. There was barely a pause in action as he punched the bot in the back of the head and shoved him to the side before he was on Rampage's back. The air was suddenly charged with the strength of the magnetic pulse Jazz used at the base of the Decepticon's neck. A violent spasm followed, throwing Prowl to the floor. Rampage followed suit an astrosecond later, crumpling into a thoroughly unconscious heap of scrap metal.

Jazz was at Prowl's side in moments, gathering the tactician up and dragging him to safety.

"Friends of yours, I presume?" Prowl coughed, leaning heavily against Jazz's side.

"Ain't got no friends besides you," Jazz replied roughly. One arm was wrapped tightly around Prowl's frame while his free hand grasped the tactician beneath the chin and was turning his faceplate from side to side to inspect the damages. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but the superficial damage was extensive. Crushed cranial crests, damaged audio dials, caved in armour.

"That would be a spark-warming sentiment if this were any other time. I am going to assume the two Autobots were the ones who let the Decepticons in," Prowl said, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. The room appeared tilted to the left, so either one of his optics was set loose in its socket or the axis of his room had suddenly shifted. "They were most likely the ones who have been watching you."

"Ah thought they'd attack meh first," Jazz murmured, sounding truly sorry. His energon-stained claws came up, pressing on Prowl's optic. There was a click, and suddenly the room stopped looking tilted. "Ah thought Ah'd be the one hunting them. Ah didn't think they'd come after _you_."

"If it is any consolation, I did not think anyone would attack me at all. I was wholly unprepared," Prowl said, almost smiling for the saboteur. "You're here now, though. That counts for something."

A low groan from the floor had both bots tensing. Rampage was regaining consciousness, as was the Autobot traitor who Jazz had punched out. In the doorway, the second Autobot traitor appeared. The damages Prowl had dealt to him stood out grotesquely under the stark lights. There had been enough time at the very beginning of the assault for Prowl to release a round of acid pellets before his gun was kicked away; the chest, arms, and legs of the traitor were blistered and peeling. Quickstrike looked even worse, for all the damages Jazz had inflicted on him. His lower abdomen had been speared through by his own severed tail, which now twitched as Quickstrike moved.

"Frag," Jazz cursed, glaring at Quickstrike. "Ah was hoping he'd stay down."

"You will have your chance to keep him down in a moment," Prowl said darkly.

"Hey!" someone shouted from down the hall. "Hey! What-the-pit-is-going-on!" The rev of an engine filled the narrow corridor. Prowl and Jazz watched in shock as a blue blur passed by, ramming so hard into Quickstrike's side that it sent the Decepticon sprawling across the floor. There soon came the sound of transformation as their speedy saviour transformed and began to wrestle with the Decepticon.

"Diamondback!" bellowed another bot, and the Autobot who stood in the doorway whipped around in time to have a fist pounded into the center of his faceplate. A second Autobot, this one with armour of fluorescent orange-yellow, went to the ground with the traitor called Diamondback. Their scuffle was in plain view of the open doorway, and it looked violent. Whoever the new bot was, he fought dirty.

"This is an interesting turn of events," Prowl observed evenly. "The odds look to be in our favour now."

"Let meh even the odds a little more," Jazz said, letting one of his daggers fly into the throat of the second Autobot traitor. The bot choked and flailed, and then fell motionlessly to the ground. Not dead, but close to it. It wasn't an assault; it was just a tickle.

Rampage regarded his fallen comrade with distaste. "I will not go down so easily."

"Good," said Jazz. "Ah like challenges."

As one, Prowl and Jazz launched themselves into an offensive. Jazz jumped high, slashing at Rampage's faceplate. Rampage took the saboteur by the arm and whipped him to the floor. Prowl used Jazz's distraction to pick up a fallen chair from the floor. He swung it as hard as he could, smashing it into the side of Rampage's head. The metal screeched as it crumpled and twisted. Rampage's head jerked to the side; he stumbled to one knee. Prowl raised the chair again and drove it into the back of Rampage's head. Jazz collected himself from the floor in time to rush in before Prowl could swing a third time. He grabbed Rampage by the back of his head and rammed it down onto his raised knee. A satisfying crunch followed. Rampage's olfactory sensor was nothing but an ugly memory.

Rampage did not feel the damage. His neural net was off and he was accustomed to such damages. A blade slid from his forearm and swung out at the saboteur. Jazz twisted away, only to have the serrated weapon drive into the opening in his armour where his right leg met his pelvic structure. The blade wrenched inside, destroying everything it touched. A strangled noise came out of the saboteur's mouthplates as he reached down and ripped the knife out.

Prowl dove in, swinging Jazz to safety while at the same time driving the heel of his foot into Rampage's chin. Rage propelled the strength of the attack. While Rampage's head jerked back, Prowl closed the distance by landing one heavy punch to the Decepticon's neck, caving the armour. His next punch slammed into the side of the mech's head, crushing the audio dial. Rampage's optics flickered bright for a moment before going dark. He fell to the ground unconscious again.

Prowl loomed for several astroseconds over the fallen bot, his vents heaving. Rampage did not move.

"Ah hope he's dead," Jazz sneered as he grasped his hip. He tried to take a step, but fumbled weakly. This was followed by one long, low string of curses. A heavy gush of energon oozed out between his fingers, running down his leg.

Prowl abandoned glaring at Rampage in favour of seeing to Jazz. "You should not have gotten so close-!" He admonished as he dropped to his knees, trying to pry Jazz's hands away. "How bad is it? Let me see-"

"It's nothing," Jazz said lowly.

"You're oozing all over the place and you can hardly walk!" Prowl exclaimed.

"It's just some slashed tension wires and energon lines. Nothing life threatening," Jazz grunted, attempting to hop away from his partner. He didn't want to take his hand off the wound. Without the tension wires, he no longer had articulate control over the limb. He was hobbled.

Prowl revved deeply, still determined to look after Jazz's wound.

There was movement behind them. Rampage was getting up again.

"Doesn't this mech ever stay down?" Jazz exclaimed, getting tired of Decepticons who clearly did not know when to quit.

"It does not appear that way, does it?" Prowl lurched to his feet with a pained grunt.

"We were sent here to make sure you never leave this place. Quickstrike failed," Rampage rumbled darkly. "_I_ will make sure you never leave this place."

Prowl and Jazz braced themselves for round three.

"Don't think you're about to go anywhere, Decepti-slag." A loud shot rang out, too loud in the confines of the small room. Rampage's frame jerked hard. His optics flashed bright. And then he pitched forward, crashing to the floor with resounding finality. He was not getting up again.

Simultaneously, Jazz and Prowl's gazes jerked up. Silhouetted in the doorway was the bot with the blazing orange-yellow paint. Behind him was a blue Autobot who was currently hopping up and down to see inside.

Jazz blinked, and then smirked when he recognized his saviour. "Punch."

"Jazz." Punch grinned rakishly. "Should have had a security detail, huh? Good thing I was in the neighbourhood."

The saboteur laughed.

Prowl crouched over Rampage's motionless frame. "He's not dead."

"I shot out his spinal column," Punch said. "I figured it was best to keep him alive for now. Undoubtedly there are going to be bots who will want to question him. Dead mechs don't answer questions quite so nicely as the live ones do."

Prowl nodded, rocking back on his heels. "Security is on its way, yes?"

"I-called-as-soon-as-I-heard-the-commotion!" the blue bot in the hall announced, weaselling his way into the room. He was undoubtedly Blurr. The pitch and speed of the words as they flew from his mouthplates made them nearly unrecognizable. "They-should-be-here-any-moment! Can-you-believe-it? Decepticons-in-Tyger-Pax! I-never-would-have-suspected-Diamondback-and-Sidewinder-to-be-traitors! They-were-such-nice-bots! And-here-they-were, all-this-time...Decepticons!" He jumped from foot to foot, still charged from battle. "Good-thing-they-chose-the-wrong-bots-to-fight, right? They-could-have-gone-after-anyone, but-they-chose-you-two. Bad-luck-for-them, if-you-ask-me. Good-luck-for-us."

Prowl crouched over Sidewinder's frame, tugging out Jazz's dagger and handing it to the proper owner. Sidewinder stared up at him with dazed, dim optics. A medic would soon have to look after the wounds or else the traitor would die. The tactician sighed. "Sometimes there are statistical anomalies that are impossible to calculate for."

Jazz shot Prowl a shaded glance.

All four of them jumped as they heard movement in the hall. A soft screech, which at first they thought was the sound of Decepticons rising. Jazz snarled and Punch withdrew a second pair of stasis cuffs, if the first pair had not been enough to immobilize his opponent. As it turned out, the noise they heard was not what they thought. It was actually the sound of unconscious frames being dragged across the floor. The four bots looked up in time to see a dark shadow in the hall, hunched over as it crept along; none other than Grimm taking possession of Quickestrike and Diamondback's frames. When she had gotten there and how she had crept in so silently was a complete mystery. She had a chain wrapped around each of the Decepticons' necks to drag them inch by inch. The moment she sensed their attention, she turned her dead optics on them.

"They are _mine_," she said, each word coming out like boulders being slammed together down a mountainside in an explosive cacophony.

Prowl opened his mouthplates to object.

Jazz laid a steady hand to the tactician's arm. "Let her have them," he said. Grimm might have worn the Autobot decal, but Jazz understood that whatever her intentions toward the Decepticons, they would not follow Autobot regulation. The fate she intended for them was far worse than anything he might do to them.

For a moment, it looked as if Prowl would still object. He puffed up to spew proper protocol, but then saw the look in Jazz's optics. The steady defiance and a silent request for Prowl to stand down just this once. Prowl sighed, deflating entirely.

Grimm blinked slowly, and then something very frightening happened. The edges of her mouthplates curled up into something that could have been called a smile, but only because the Cybertronian language did not have a word to truly describe the horrific nature of the expression Grimm now wore. Quite like her voice, her smile was an event that seemed only appropriate to be compared to a horrible natural disaster; like the opening of a black, bottomless chasm into the depths of a dead planet where monstrous beasts lurked. The smile stayed on her faceplate as she turned away, proceeding to inch away with her condemned prizes.

Not long after, security arrived.

* * *

The aftermath of the attack was nearly as frenetic as the attack itself. Prowl and Jazz were rushed to the med bay for treatment. Several medics were on duty to attend to them, working through the night to fix all the damages wrought from battle. Thankfully, the majority of their damages was all superficial, so they would be good as soon as the dents were banged out and the wires replaced.

Grimm, as the CMO of Tyger Pax, should have been present for the repairs. She remained absent for all of the night. No one could find her, and there was no trace of what happened to Quickstrike or Diamondback. Bots started asking questions, though as soon as they found out it was Grimm who had taken the bots, they suddenly found other things to wonder about. It quickly became understood that Quickstike and Diamondback were not likely to ever be seen again. Some tried to reason that they still had Rampage and Sidewinder in custody. Two out of four was better than none.

Jazz decided that his earlier suspicion concerning Grimm, ones that involved the sucking out and subsequent devouring of victims' sparks, was perhaps not as far from the truth as he first might have imagined.

Punch and Blurr found themselves moving in and out of the med bay, getting patched up here and there. They had not suffered as extensive damages as Prowl and Jazz. Punch seemed to have taken to Jazz in the short time that they had known each other. They chatted together while medics worked to replace the cut tension wires and energon lines in the saboteur's leg. Prowl tried not to notice how easily Jazz conversed with the spy.

Throughout the following joors, commanders from all divisions made an appearance, including the base commander. They all took statements from all the bots involved. Most of them expressed sad disbelief that there were traitors among them. All of them said they would be looking into the matter and further investigating if there might be more sleeper agents hiding in their ranks. The Security Director personally assured the visiting Iaconite commander and his Neutral partner that he would be reviewing every astrosecond of security footage to see if there was anyone else on base who appeared to be collaborating with Sidewinder and Diamondback as they helped the Decepticons through the base.

For the most part, Prowl was cooperative and patient with the Paxian commanders, and wholly encouraged future investigations of their subordinates. Jazz merely snarked at them until they left him alone.

When the medics finished with their work, they looked exhausted but pleased. It would be a few orns before either bot was back to one hundred percent. Jazz's leg was still tender and Prowl's audio continued to ring despite the repairs done to it. Nevertheless, if they insisted on leaving in the morning, they were free to go. There was nothing and no one who could stop either of them from leaving if they truly wanted to go somewhere.

It was silently decided that Prowl and Jazz would gone by the time the sun fully rose.

In the wee joors of the night, the dark moments before dawn cracked over the horizon, Prowl and Jazz had been left to rest in peace in the ICU. They were alone in the large ward. The only light was supplied by the CR chambers gently glowing at one end of the room.

"Prowl," Jazz murmured, turning to his side to regard the defined shadow of his partner laying on the berth next to him. Only a small space separated them, but even such a small space felt like a yawning chasm.

"Yes?" Prowl replied. He tensed, knowing what was coming. The words had been hanging between them ever since it had been calm enough for them both to think it.

"Your brother set us up."

The tactician shuttered his optics and bowed his head. "I know."


	34. Chapter 34

Has anyone noticed that the formatting for FFN is really fucked up? I upload something and '_Poof_!' the document is all wonky when I go to look at it. The italics and bolding is just all... weird. It's really annoying. =/

Anyways, I know I mentioned to a few people that this chapter would be a few weeks before it got up. I didn't lie. At least... not at the time I said the words. I'm just super relieved right now that I finished a major paper for my Issues in Anthropology class, so I'm celebrating by posting this chapter. Now everyone can enjoy good fortune! 8D

_For __the __very __astute __reader_; Jazz's accent in his flashbacks, because I want to explain it. Even though they are portrayals of the past before Alpha Prime's Language Unification Act, Jazz retains a mild accent in Tyger Pax because Pax is not his native language, Kev is. So he still gets to use his little '_Ah_'s' and '_mehs_' in speech. If he were speaking Kev, he'd lose his accent since it's his native tongue. Just wanted to point that out for shits and giggles.

My thanks so the awesome reviewers of the last chapter who totally made my life better with their reviews. Double thanks to the über-awesome reviewers who even went back and reviewed chapter 32 when they missed it before the posting of chapter 33. I love you people insanely much. Thank you so much to **Prowl's-little-angle, Darkeyes17, Wind of the Dawn, renegadewriter8, Optimus Bob, Katea-Nui, sparklespepper, shantastic, Anon, evilbunny777, Fianna9, femme4jack, White Aster, Daklog73, camfield, VyxenSkye, Yuro-Faita911, Jessie07, Midnight Marquis, infinityinmirrors, Pruhana, TransformersLover95, abarai-san, MoonWallker, CNightJoy, Kida Bridger, Btch, NightBlooming Orchid, Pysche102, Demon Surfer, Peacewish, Sideslip, Deathcomes4u, Thanlanee, Uniasus, luinrina, smoking caramels, soundbarrier, StarscreamII, Faecat, A Lurker,** and **Wanderling**!

Feel free to mention in your review you thoughts on what Jazz experiences during this chapter. I'm interested to hear your interpretations. ^_^

**Chapter 34**

_"Tell me what you see," Xerxia ordered._

_Jazz stood at the edge of the tallest structure in the capitol and looked out over the city. He stared for a few breems, and then said, "Ah see Tyger Pax."_

_"Wrong."_

_He didn't flinch when his master wrapped her heavy hand around the back of his neck. This was just another lesson. And it was so like her to start a lesson without telling him what she was going to try to teach him. Maybe it was evidence of her twisted faith in him to figure out her secrets without her having to say them. Or maybe she simply liked to watch him suffer. Jazz always leaned toward the second option. Some lessons took joors to figure out. Some took orns. His initiation, which felt like it had taken place a lifetime ago, had taken **vorns**._

_Not that he was complaining. There was nothing he could do about it.  
_

_"Look harder," Xerxia insisted, putting pressure on his neck to force him to lean out over the ledge._

_Jazz made the mistake of looking down and realizing that it was a **lonnnnnng** way down. He wasn't afraid of heights. He wasn't afraid of much in life. But he did think how inconvenient it would be if Xerxia pushed him off the edge. Since he didn't feel like learning to fly while falling to his death, he stared out at the garish landscape of Tyger Pax at night and tried to see what his master wanted him to see. What did every shadow, every fleck of dirt have to say to him? _

_Nothing. _

_It was saying nothing to him. _

_The same thing it had always said to him as he looked out over the landscape and thought about what it would be like to be somewhere else. Tyger Pax had never meant anything to him. _

_He revved in mild frustration._

"What was that?" _Xerxia asked, expecting th_e right_ answer.  
_

_"Nothing," Jazz mumbled. _

_She snorted dispassionately._

_He blinked, continuing to look out at the city that unfolded around him.  
_

_ It was night. He had been planning to go out and terrorize the streets tonight, his training done for the orn. Xerxia had come into the dojo that evening and ordered him to follow her. He didn't dare disobey, so here he was, standing at the edge of the tallest spire in the capitol. There was no safety railing circling the ledge. No one was actually allowed to be up here; Jazz didn't bother to wonder how his master had managed to get them passed security. Questioning her was like his ability to feel fear- just another meaningless thing he'd given up on._

_What did she want him to **see**?_

_Tyger Pax was a nocturnal territory, and the night was still young. It was the equivalent of dawn elsewhere. Darkness had set, but the denizens of the territory had yet to come online for work or play. The famous neon lights of the territory's capitol glared their garish colours in every direction, creating dizzying swirls of reds, blues, yellows, oranges, greens, and purples that reflected off the shiny walls and glittering windows. It made you feel drugged if you stared for too long. The harsh architecture of Tyger Pax was brought into sharp relief from the neon glare; lines that were already straight turned into razor edges. In between the relentless lights, there were pockets of inky blackness. Corners that did not quite catch the light. Alleyways that stayed dark no matter what. The filth of the city lurking in plain sight.  
_

_And then there were the bots who lived in Tyger Pax. They were part of the machine that kept the whole system going. Bots who worked to a clockwork mechanism; getting up at a certain time, performing their prescribed function, and then going back to recharge. Repeating it orn after orn. Even the ones who came to party- the tourists and locals alike who poured their hard-earned credits into the dance clubs, pleasure houses, high-grade, and drugs... they were all part of the system.  
_

_And Jazz was not._

_He had never been a part of the system._

_There was no anchor to hold him in place. No family to give him a home. No friends to say that he mattered. No one and nothing pinned him down to a single place. Technically, by Cybertronian law, he didn't exist at all. The records that had once said he was a citizen of the planet, written at his creation and stored at the Kaon Youth Sector, were now gone after the Sector had been decommissioned and a fire sparked by an electrical storm ravaged the warehouse where the files had been stored. His past had gone up in smoke._

_He was no one now._

_As free as a ghost, though not quite as dead._

_Sometimes when night fell and his training was done, he lost himself in the frenzied lights and grind of moving frames. It was the madness he sought. Insanity was his escape, never the bots. He wanted the drinks and the drugs; the way they made the world suddenly bizarre and make sense at the same time. Sometimes he lost himself to the madness so completely that he didn't remember what happened. Those were wonderful nights full of sweet blackness or dizzying blurs. Only when he came online at dawn, he always found himself in his room at the dojo. Like coming online and discovering the nightmare was real. Energon crusted over his beaten knuckles, coating his fingers and down his chest as if he had painted himself with it. The sound of someone screaming rang vaguely in his audios. That kind of madness was setting in more and more often. He welcomed it. Took comfort in it the same way one revelled in the warmth of a lover._

_Instead of staring at the city, he stared at the bots. They all looked so small._

_"Ah see Cybertronians," he murmured._

_The hand on the back of his neck tightened. It didn't hurt, but the weight of her arm was crushing. It was as if she were formed from the compacted mass of a dead star. Dense, heavy, and unrelenting. Come to think of it, her spark was probably made from a dead star, too; they were both black and rock-solid._

_"Good."_

_She leaned into his side, required to lean up because he was a little taller than her._

_"Tell me what you see inside them," she spoke into his audio. She had such a harsh voice. Even at a whisper, it was terrible to listen to._

_"Inside?" Jazz wondered. Inside where? Their insides as in their pumps and engines and energon lines? Did she mean for him to go down there and tear them open? That would have been nothing new. He had watched Xerxia tear others open many times, and he was beginning to participate in the sessions. What would one more bot mean to him? But... no, tonight Xerxia did not mean to literally turn someone inside out. He was supposed to see something from up here, which seemed equally ridiculous. Even if he adjusted his optics, he would still only get a blurred vision of the aimless bots down below. What was inside them that was so important to see?_

_She forced him to lean a little farther over the ledge. Stray debris sitting by the tip of his foot tumbled downward, disappearing. A yellow cloud started to pass beneath them, lit up garishly by all the neon lights. It looked horrible._

_"Look at them, Jazz," his master ordered. "I want you to See them."_

_He stared without seeing what she wanted him to see._

_Xerxia shook him, as if the mild violence would get her point across.  
_

_"Look at their worthless lives wasted in oblivion. They will never accomplish anything of worth." She made a noise that Jazz did not know how to describe. He had never heard the noise before. "They see only what they're told to see. They never see what's really there."_

_She forced him out until he hung at such an angle that one slip would have him plummet to his death._

_That heavy hand of hers was his only anchor._

_Jazz did not struggle for purchase on the ledge. He wondered how difficult learning to fly was.  
_

_"You're not like them, Jazz. You've never been like them. I want you to see the world as it really is. See everything."_

_The cloud was gone. Jazz stared down into the little shapes of insignificant bots. He saw aerials in the air. Commuters on the transport ways. The peripheral movement of frames in the shadows doing all sorts of things. He did not care about any of them. They were all background characters in his life, populating the scenery only because it would be strange to see an empty city. They were as 2-dimensional as dirty graffiti._

_"See them, Jazz," Xerxia murmured. "I know you can do this. Just open your optics and see them."_

_"See them," he mumbled, as if saying the words would suddenly make it true.  
_

_He stared so hard that his head hurt. His optics began to burn. His neck felt like it was going to snap in half from the pressure of his weight baring him down and Xerxia's hand keeping him up. The pain meant nothing to him. Hearing Xerxia tell him he could do something was the closest thing to encouragement he had ever heard out of her. He wanted to learn this lesson quicker than any other because of it. It was something she **knew** he could do._

_He stared until the whole world started to blur together._

_That fine line between the reality you understood and the madness of the true world underneath._

_He stared so hard that he felt an energon line pop behind his right optic. A thin trickle of blue energon started to leak out from the corner.__ His frame was shaking so hard that every inch of him rattled._ It didn't matter, though. Nothing else mattered.  


_Xerxia watched him, her relentless gaze piercing the back of his head. He could almost hear her voice in his head demanding that he get this right._

_His vision started to black out. Fear and rage surged through him. He wanted to be able to do this one thing. He wanted to see! The world went fuzzy. Dark. Light. Dark. ...And then it happened. A shift. A small shift in the world. As if everything had suddenly tilted to the left and the only people to notice were the ones who were looking. It changed nothing, and yet everything could be seen from an entirely new angle. ...maybe that was just the deprivation of energon to his processor talking, but Jazz suddenly saw a world that was exactly the same as it had been before, and yet it was different somehow. The colours were brighter and blurred together. The sky seemed higher. The ground was lower. The bots were not so 2-dimensional anymore._

_Xerxia felt the shift in him. The way his frame relaxed. His optics transfixed on the city. His temperature spiked. Air shuddered in his vents. His spark skipped several beats, its pulse erratic against her hand around his neck.  
_

_"Tell me what you see," she murmured, her voice still harsh, yet hypnotic at the same time._

_"Ah can see them," Jazz breathed, the words a little slurred as if he was drugged. _

_"See who?" she pressed, wary to hope it had worked. _

_"Them," Jazz breathed hoarsely. "Ah see inside them."  
_

_"Describe it."_

_Silence settled between them for so long it seemed as if half the night had passed away before Jazz remembered how to speak again. The world had somehow shifted, and suddenly it felt as if words did not mean the same thing. When he tried to force them through his vocal processor, they felt like gunk. As he tried to press them past his mouthplates, they all felt like the wrong shape. The wrong flavour. The wrong meaning. He eventually forced himself to speak, but it was more like purging.  
_

_"That bot over there hates his function," he said, pointing to the bot sitting outside a skyscraper, washing the windows. Even at a distance, he saw the sluggish movements. The slumped frame. It had all been there before, but now it held meaning. The dim optics. The morose frown. Listless existence. He could almost hear the faded tempo of a spark that didn't want to live anymore. It was madness and he knew it... and he liked it. "He might jump and end it all if someone gives him the right incentive."_

_"Good. Very good," Xerxia breathed. Sweet praise, the likes of which Jazz had never heard before. "Try another one," she said. _

_Jazz was quite sure he was willing to try anything she told him to do if she would just praise him like that one more time.  
_

_Her grip tightened until he saw stars erupt in his vision. Black and white spots flickering in and out. He was lightheaded and nauseous. For some reason, it felt so good._

_"There are two bots in that alley there." He turned his optics down to the pair as they writhed. "They hate each other, but they're sparkbonded to each other." He could see the way they crushed against each other with more violence than Xerxia had ever struck him with. A flash of the tiny pinpricks of their optics and he saw the infernal flame of rage and disgust. Caged animals. "They bonded on a whim. They regret it, but can't undo it. They don't want to commit suicide to end it, but they hope someone will sneak up and kill them."_

_Xerxia said nothing this time, but stared down at the spot Jazz had spoken of. Perhaps she could see the exact same thing, Perhaps she could see even more than Jazz. No matter how deep set her optics were, she always seemed to see more than she let on. There might come an orn when Jazz could see like her. This was his first time, though. He was doing pretty damn good for his first time._

_The pressure in his neck finally became too much. He purged. Congealed energon spilled past his mouthplates. Luckily, he hung at such an angle that only an unfortunate passerby below was going to receive the mess._

_He spat several times to rid himself of the taste. He made the mistake of trying to look back to see if Xerxia noticed. His head turned just a fraction. Not much more than to be able to see a sliver of his master's faceplate. Enough to see that the world had not only shifted in the city, it had shifted around her too. In that moment, everything inside him froze. His spark stuttered to a halt. He wanted to purge again._

_For the first time, he **saw** her._

_As if the reality he had always known had melted away and left a raw wound where she stood. The lines were bolder. Angles sharper. She seemed so much more real than reality itself. Uglier and harsher than reality could ever handle. It hurt to look at her. Amber optics as bright as jewels stared back at him._

_"I see you," he breathed._

_"Yes, you do." The corners of her mouthplates curved up until a grin as wicked as poison twisted her whole faceplate. "But you don't know what it means yet."_

_And then she let go of him._

* * *

Prowl's fan caught on a piece of debris while he recharged, creating an awful grating noise.

It was jarring enough to snap Jazz from the memory he had fallen into. And really, he had _fallen_. Several stories, in fact, until a ledge stuck out too far and caught him. The impact had been so sharp that his chest fractured, cracking his sparkcase. He remembered the searing pain of having jagged pieces of metal clawing inside his spark. There had also been the curious disconnection from his own frame as the interfacial links between his spark and his frame were disrupted; he'd been partially paralyzed. His optics had shattered from the force of the fall, leaving him blind for several orns until Xerxia managed to convince some kind of associate of hers called 'A3' to come and fix him.

Even in his blindness, he never forgot the amber optics that had stared back at him.

It was one of the few times Xerxia had let him see her true gaze, instead of the blue one she normally wore. The side of herself that seemed to be made of reality itself. Throughout his long life, he only recalled seeing flashes of amber optics from dark places and odd spaces. His master was right: he still didn't know what it meant.

The moment she had opened his optics, though... it had been a turning point in his life. A defining moment when he realized the world looked better when it was spinning so fast that everything blurred together. He liked madness a little more than mundane. There was more to see inside every bot than what they wore on the outside. Back then, the more he knew about what was on the inside, the less he cared. They were all meaningless to him.

Prowl made another grating noise, distracting Jazz once again from his thoughts. The present world came back into focus, a stark reminder of exactly where they were. Several orns of flying and driving had brought them nearly all the way to the most southern point of the borderlands between Tyger Pax and Kaon. Not much farther from their position was the point where all six territories of the southern hemisphere merged. A dangerous place that could easily kill a bot from ambient EM energy.

In the old orns, it was said spark-eaters and frame-snatchers came from the poles of Cybertron.

There was no such thing as spark-eaters and frame-snatchers, of course, but the stories had once been sufficiently scary enough to keep naive sparklings and youngling online many nights in a row for fear of what might be lurking while they recharged.

During the Golden Age, the most southern and northern provinces in the territories had always hosted small populations. Not because they were eaten by monsters, but simply because living so close to the poles proved so difficult. It was the EM fields mixed with frequent frozen precipitation that resulted in conditions equivalent to a death sentence. Acid snow and ice formed from the ambient dihydrogen monoxide, sulphuric acid, and carbonic acid in the atmosphere; unique to the poles where it was cold enough to freeze the vapours. Snow and ice on their own were not too bad. It was kind of pretty to watch fat yellow-grey flakes of snow float down from the sky. Once that stuff started getting into a bot's frame, it was an entirely different matter. Ice could freeze up their joints, ruin their hydraulics, lock their processing units, and ice their energon lines. The resulting damages could be catastrophic. Best case scenario was that your systems went into stasis to preserve everything before it broke down. Worse case scenario, ice formed in your sparkcase and around your spark, slowly lulling you into a cold-induced recharge that you never woke up from.

Coming to this place had been the first time Prowl had ever physically seen snow or ice. He tried not to be unnerved by it. The most weather Simfur ever had was cloudy skies, cold winds, and acidic rainstorms bad enough to melt the paint off your aft. Snow and ice was rather foreign to him, alien even, and he did not know how to deal with it. Driving had proven difficult. He slicked and slid from one side of the uneven roads to the other.

Jazz had seen the white, fluffy slag too often in the colonies to be impressed by it. If you see snow and ice once, then you've seen it all. Until it learned to do a neat trick, it would always be boring. Not even driving through it offered excitement anymore. He'd driven in worse conditions. The most he could hope for was to keep the blasted stuff out of his frame.

So far so good, in regards to keeping himself ice-free.

It had been several orns since they had set their ship down in a secluded part of the borderlands, covered it up with as much junk as possible, and left it there in faith that it would still be there when they returned. Travel had been hard and slow after that, only to get harder and slower the farther south they drove. Many places in the gorge were collapsed, forcing the pair to climb and slide and dance over unstable mountains of debris rather than drive. The towering walls of foreboding metal that soared up around them at heights that nearly obscured the skies entirely seemed to magnify the electromagnetic fields in the air. Storms localized within the gorges themselves played havoc on every sensor they had.

The small alcove they huddled together in tonight was not much. A hole tucked off the gorge, protected from the elements though not necessarily the ambient EM fields. Floor space was enough for one of them to lay down and the other to sit hunched against the wall; it was currently Prowl's turn to recharge and Jazz turn to keep watch.

The tactician was not resting well. He grunted often as if in discomfort. Despite the shielding Grimm had given them, he still suffered from nausea and dizziness due to EM sickness. There was an occasional episode where his spark would suddenly stop communicating with parts of his frame; at random times, his arms or legs might fall limp and numb. He might suffer the disturbing sense of double consciousness, realizing that he was a completely separate entity from the shell of metal he was currently inhabiting. He did well to hide his discomforts while online, though Jazz could see them regardless. Prowl found no relief at any moment of the orn or night.

His discomfort was further compounded by the torment of knowing that another brother had turned against him. Kingpin had been unfortunate, though he and Prowl had never been close. Hunter felt was a devastating loss. What if there had been something he could have done to keep Hunter on their side? What if he had been a better Autobot and spotted the chances of defection before it happened? If he had been a better bot, a better brother, if he had kept in contact with Hunter as Smokescreen did, would that have been enough to keep Hunter's loyalty? So many things for Prowl to hate himself over. Prowl further worried what this betrayal might mean to the rest of the mission. It was not likely that Hunter was in contact with Shockwave, given the above-top-secret nature of Shockwave's existence and movements, but that did not mean word could not get back to the Decepticons about the failed attempt on their lives. If the 'Cons could send bots once, they could send more. Prowl also dreaded what might become of Hunter if..._when_ Jazz was set loose on him. Prowl knew too well that Jazz would show no mercy.

Jazz's conscience was, by far, several levels lighter than Prowl's. He had no such emotional attachment to Hunter. The mech had sold them out to the Decepticons and he was going to pay for it. Plus, Jazz still hadn't forgotten that Hunter had called him an idiot. He was going to pay double for that. The only impingement on Jazz's conscience was the fact that he knew he was going to hurt Prowl. A necessary evil, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

As for how the saboteur was handling the southern borderlands, he was coping. There was no escaping the EM fields playing havoc with his systems, but he was so accustomed to his own magnetic pulses that he supposed he was partially immune. One did not subject others to EM attacks without feeling some kind of backlash. His frame had adapted over time to compensate. Physical discomforts like nausea and vertigo meant little to him, though he did prefer to live without them if he had the choice. He had yet to hallucinate, or at least do so to a noticeable degree. His largest concern was getting Prowl through the gorge, as well as hunting Shockwave down.

The Decepticon scientist was proving as elusive as ever. Several orns of searching for him had yielded nothing, except for the desperate pleas of half-mad Neutrals begging for their loved ones to be found and returned to them. They had risked everything to come to the poles to survive the war; they did not want to lose friends and family to some monster in the dark. None were particularly helpful in giving Prowl or Jazz directions or even a hint of Shockwave's whereabouts. Now the Autobot and Neutral were low on supplies and patience, contemplating if their mission was a lost cause.

Jazz cursed softly. He hated feeling so useless!

He wanted to stretch his legs. The tension wires in his legs were starting to seize, especially on the right where his wound had yet to heal up completely. Prowl took up much of the floor space, so he resisted the urge to move. The poor bot needed the rest. He didn't need to be kicked in the faceplate.

A silver hand reached out, fingertips brushing warm, dark metal. Prowl grunted, but did not wake. Jazz vaguely thought about offering a mild magnetic pulse, but with all the ambient energy floating around, it probably wouldn't do as much good as it normally would. Pit, it might even end up frying Prowl's processor.

In need of a distraction, he pulled a cube from subspace and frowned at its half-empty contents. Running low on fuel. There wasn't enough dead bots around to cannibalize their energon. If they ran out, they'd be fragged. Shaking his head to clear himself of the morbid thought, he finished off the cube. The slight burn of liquified energy woke him up out of the slight daze he had not realized he was falling into.

"Tomorrow will be better," he muttered, drawing his knees up to his chest so he could wrap his arms around them and rest his head.

Prowl's innards gurgled, prompting Jazz to cast him a pitying look. As soon as they got back to civilization, he was force-feeding his partner filter cleaner. Or he would convince Ratchet to replace every filter in the bot's frame. Whichever seemed more fun when the opportunity arose.

In any case, Jazz patted Prowl comfortingly even if the tactician remained ignorant to the gesture.

A shuffling noise raked the saboteur's attention to the mouth of the alcove. To his surprise, he realized it was snowing. Grey-white flakes with a vaguely yellow tint; more dihydrogen monoxide than sulphur. Not very acidic. The fall was thick, though; from what Jazz could see, it was nothing but a white wall of swirling fluff in the inky dark. How had he missed the start of the storm? He must have been more distracted than he thought if something as important as weather conditions had escaped him.

With his gaze now fixed on the outside world, the shuffling outside that had first gained his attention had him abruptly jolting up when it came again. It was the soft shuffle of metal feet scuffing through heavy snowdrifts. Tensing, squinting into the gloom, Jazz immediately saw that it was not just random noise echoing off jagged formations. There was shape to it. Not a perfect shape, nor a defined shape, but a figure nonetheless; something dark and quick that moved like the flicker of flame-shadow, its edges fading off into nothingness. The shuffling stopped, and the creature making it seemed to realize that it had caught Jazz's attention. Jazz did not see the thing move, but he knew, he _felt_, it swing its head toward him. There was no optical light; not red light, blue light, or white. Despite the lack of light, Jazz knew right down to his spark that someone was staring at him with a stare that saw right through him. Pierced him like a spear straight through to the core.

A creeping, crawling, prickling sense moved down his back.

A thick snow flurry briefly swirled across the mouth of the alcove, obscuring the figure for all but a moment. The way cleared, but the shadow was already gone.

"Slag it," Jazz hissed, knowing damn well that if someone was out there, they weren't out there by coincidence. As nimble as the wind, he hopped over Prowl's prone form and threw himself into the night storm. In a bid to keep the elements out of his frame, he air-locked himself as he might when in space, and engaged his battle mask for added security. Both hands slid down his sides to confirm his blades were in place. Right where he left them, their hilts butted comfortingly against the heels of his palms. With scanners that were nearly useless and optics almost blinded by the storm, Jazz searched in all directions for the spy that was soon going to die.

"Alright, where are ya, ya little fragger," he murmured lowly.

The wind howled through the gorge so hard that it tossed him from his feet.

"_Jazz..." _

Something colder than the ice slid through him. It seemed so impossible, but he _knew_ that voice. That horrible, wretched, grating voice like sandpaper against gravel, dragged up from the darkest depths of the past as if risen from the dead. He spun, searching desperately. Everything was so dark; how had he been able to see something through the darkness unless it had been something darker than shadow? Above the howl of the wind, he heard the pounding beat of his spark in his audios.

And above the rapid staccato of his spark, he heard her call again, _"__Jazz...__" _

Not far ahead in the gorge, the figure with the faded edges materialized through the snowdrifts. She was waiting midway up a collapsed heap of rubble. He could not see the details of the intruder, but he knew exactly what she looked like. His memories of her would never fade; they had been ingrained inside him as deep as the deepest scar. Her thick, squat form had not changed in all the eons since he had last seen her. That heavy armour that no amount of punching or kicking could ever pierce. Those thick spring-loaded legs that could deliver shattering kicks powerful enough to throw an opponent through a wall. Through the storm, she was just a shadow, though Jazz imagined her faceplate unchanged by time just like the rest of her. Still ugly and full of indifference.

"Xerxia?" Jazz breathed, watching the creature as she watched him.

A hand waved, beckoning him to follow. Her unsteady fire-flicker dark shape moved on as if untouched by the storm. She crested the top of the heap and disappeared.

Without consciously bidding his frame to do so, Jazz ran after her. He clawed his way over the rubble heap, slipping and sliding as the ice-slicked metal refused to hold his weight. He came to the top only to catch on an exposed pipe, flipping forward. His chest hit the debris with enough force to start an avalanche that he surfed all the way to the bottom. Tossing. Tumbling. The world turned into a dizzying kaleidoscope of whites, greys, and blacks. He could feel his paint being scraped off chip by chip until he was thrown from the mess at the bottom. Scrambling to his feet, he searched once again for his master.

She waited for him farther ahead. The snow was so heavy that it made her seem as if she were only a 2-dimensional shadow against the gorge walls. A shadow that stayed on the walls long after its owner had walked away. The moment he saw her, she was off again. Knowing he had no choice but to follow, Jazz gave chase. He ran through the dark gloom. Ran even while drifts of snow smacked him in the faceplate and slicked around his ankles; ice crusting his silver armour. He stumbled every few steps on patches of hidden ice.

Why was he so desperate to reach her? What did she have that he could possibly want? He had been done with her for so long that she might as well have been dead to him. No, she _was_dead to him. Dead for a very long time.

The wind blew hard through his audios.

"_Jazz...__"_ he heard her calling his designation.

As if a thousand lifetimes had not passed since he had last seen his master, he ran after her faster. Blindly, and perhaps stupidly, he tripped after his master with a desperation he could not quite place. Did he feel rage? If he caught her, would he wrap his hands around her thick neck and squeeze until her optics rolled back and her head popped off? Did he want to cut her to ribbons and throw each silver to the winds until she was scattered so far apart she could never be put back together. Or would he fall at her feet and wonder, not for the first time, why she had left so long ago and where she had been all this time?

No matter how fast he ran, he never got close enough to see her properly. She was forever out of reach. Either moving ahead of him so fast and surefooted that it seemed like the storm did not touch her, or standing in an unlikely place to wait for him to catch up. Every time the wind blew hard, he heard his designation being called- sometimes loud, sometimes quiet. Urging him on.

He followed her with his avid gaze as much as he did with his feet. The storm made her seem like a mirage. One moment she was a figure of solid substance, the next she was a shadow running on the walls. Howling wind and flurries of snow wiped away her footprints before they had a chance to settle. Jazz was forced to follow her with his optics, always tracking that elusive figure that seemed to exist only in the spaces between where the snowflakes fell.

They ran down a narrow off-shoot of the gorge. Through a labyrinth of this-ways and that-ways. Steps that ran up and stairs that ran down. A confusing, dizzying, terrifying chase through nooks and crannies and secret places that Jazz had never dreamed of existing.

They ran for so long it felt as if they were running toward the end of the world.

"Xerxia!" Jazz howled over the heavy winds. "Damn you, Xerxia, _stop!__"_

Strangely enough, she did.

Her heavy frame came to rest at the very top of an incline. Behind her, the world dropped off into a sudden cliff. A gigantic wound deeper than the canyon cut into the surface of Cybertron. Above them, the gorge was partially covered. Snow no longer fell in heavy sheets. It fluttered like ghosts, small swirls and whirls drifting from the skies and down into the dead air of the secret crevice. The howling wind was only a distant scream. Xerxia turned slowly, somehow darker than the dark. Within that darkness, two tiny pinpoints of light glittered where her optics should be, though the colour was unclear. Jazz did not think it was blue.

"Ah-!" He panted in rage and exhilaration. The words that came out his mouthplates were not Main Cybertronian; instead, they came from the language of the land of Tyger Pax. For the first time in eons, he screamed in Pax. "_I__ see __you!_"

He could almost feel her smiling, neither cruel nor kind. Maybe it was in pity.

The wind blew softly this time.

"_You still don't know what it means, do you?" _

Before his optics, she blew away with the snowdrifts as if she had never been there at all.

Jazz suddenly felt so cold inside that ice might as well have swallowed his spark.

"Jazz!" called a voice that echoed from behind him. He could hear pounding footsteps. The crunch and shuffle of snow. A living body was chasing after him, getting closer. "Jazz, where are you!"

His mouthplates opened a crack, no sound coming out. He couldn't look away from the place where his master had been standing.

Prowl came skidding around a corner, pale optics nearly white as he searched the gloom. His gaze finally landed on Jazz and he visibly relaxed. "There you are," he sighed, making his way over at a much more reasonable pace than what he had just been running. "You ran off so suddenly, I thought someone was attacking. Did you know you stepped on me in your haste to get out?"

Jazz blinked and stared, and then felt the word "sorry" slip from his mouthplates.

"It is alright. I hardly felt it." Prowl cast him a ghost of a smile. "You had me worried, though- running off like you did, like a mad mech. Your dampener is still engaged, so I couldn't track you by your spark. Thankfully, I tracked your prints in the snow."

Jazz looked down and saw that there was only one set of footprints in the snow.

"Are you alright?" Prowl wondered as he drew close, able to see Jazz's expression in the dim light cast by their optics. He wore an openly spooked expression. The kind of look Prowl had never seen on the saboteur's faceplate before.

Jazz was still too stunned to think of any appropriate response to give. The lack of sound coming out of him worried his companion further, who proceeded to reach out and touch the side of Jazz's faceplate as if such contact would tell him exactly what was wrong. There was only a second of hesitation before he let his fingertips brush the saboteur's plating. The silver metal of Jazz's faceplate was cold to the touch. Glittering frost decorated the sharp angles.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Prowl murmured.

A shiver when down his back. "Ah saw mah master."

Prowl jerked back a fraction in surprise. He blinked, casting his gaze around as if he would suddenly see someone else standing around. No one was there except for the wind, snow, and dark. His gaze returned to Jazz with something soft and cautious in his optics.

"Jazz, it was a hallucination," he said quietly.

"No, it can't... she was right there..." but even as the words fell out, he knew that what Prowl was saying made more sense than anything else. If not a hallucination, what else could it have been? It had been too long since he had seen his master; she might have been too mean to die, but what were the chances that she would live so long as to taunt him here, now, in this Primus-forsaken place?

"The poles can play tricks on us," Prowl intoned softly. "The EM fields can make us think we're seeing things that aren't really there."

"Ah know that," Jazz mumbled. He was numb all over. "It felt real, though. Like she was really here. Ah even heard her calling mah designation." He glanced back to the edge of the cliff where Xerxia's mirage had disappeared. A sad and bitter smile tugged at his mouthplates. "Ah still don't know what she wants meh ta see. All this time and Ah think Ah'm still a bit blind."

Prowl nodded, simply knowing that Jazz needed to say those things to get them out of his system.

"Ah was stupid ta run after ghosts," the saboteur sighed.

"You thought it was real," his companion reasoned. "You did the right thing by going after the possible intruder."

"Right." There came a click and a hum as Jazz undid the airlocking mechanisms on his frame. Vents opened back up to cycle out the hot air. Billows of steam exited from the sides of his neck, down his sides. Prowl did the same. He had run the whole way after Jazz, doing so while seeing double of the world. The storm that raged was doing nothing for his vertigo. When they tried to cycle icy air back into their frames, both bots choked at the frigidness, quickly deciding to seal their frames again and wait for better climates.

"Hopefully we will be able to find our way back to camp," Prowl intoned lightly as he looked back the way they came. This partially protected area preserved their tracks, but elsewhere they might not be so lucky. Without sensors to guide them, they were essentially _lost._

"Yeah," breathed Jazz. He was looking in the opposite direction, toward the cliff. Even if she had only been an illusion, he couldn't shake the feeling that Xerxia had been trying to tell him something. Everything had always been a lesson with her.

"We should head back before we're iced over," Prowl pointed out.

"Give meh a moment," Jazz replied. "Ah wanna check something out."

One careful step forward. And then another. As soon as he was away from Prowl, the tactician stumbled. Standing for too long had made him lose his sense of balance. Jazz paid no mind. Instead, he crept close to the wall of the narrow passage, sliding along it until he stood at the ledge that soared down at a ninety degree angle. At first, there was only gloom, which was to be expected in such an unforgiving, lightless place. The longer he stared, it seemed like the darkness coalesced into distant shapes.

He could not believe what he saw at the bottom of the pit.

"Prowler," he called softly, looking back. Prowl was bracing himself against the wall, sick but determined. "You're gonna wanna see this."

"What is it?"

"Come and see." He stretched out his hand, waiting for Prowl to stumble within reach before he caught the mech and drew him carefully to the edge to look down.

Prowl tried to look down, only to find out that he could not stand it without feeling incredibly nauseous. It was nearly painful the way his equilibrium refused to even out, making him feel as if he were spinning in all directions when he knew that he was standing still. Without thinking, he placed his faceplate in the crook of Jazz's neck so that he did not have to see anything at all.

"Tell me what you see," he sighed.

"We found him, Prowler," Jazz murmured as he laid his hand to the back of Prowl's head. He grinned as the dim lights and foreboding military structure became more and more apparent. "We found Shockwave."


	35. Chapter 35

Been a couple of months, huh? I know it's been a while, and that's been bothering the hell out of me. Life's been hard and only getting harder. I really had to fight for this chapter, because it _did not_ want to come out at all. And, by the end of it, I still think it's trying to spite me a little. I cannot wait for the end of my university year in a couple of months, if I don't die before then. Mostly, I just hope everyone enjoys this chapter, basks in the relief that _Where You and I Collide_ is not dead (it's just hibernating), and you are all so overjoyed that you all leave reviews expressing your undying love for this story. 8D

My most sincere thanks to the reviewers of the last chapter: **Optimus Bob, renegadewriter8, Peacewish, Sideslip, White Aster, CNightJoy, Wanderling, VyxenSkye, Wind of the Dawn, FunkyFish1991, Shantastic, SimpleRhapsody, DemonSurfer, evilbunny777, Camfield, Faecat, TransformersLover95, Nightblooming Orchid, Darkeyes17, Phoebe Turner, Yuro-Faita911, Pruhana, SwedishDragon, Prowls-little-angel, Daklog73, smoking caramels, Midnight Marquis, luirina, obsessivesyndrome, Kida Bridger, Fianna9, DitzyMusicLover, Wise Crack Idiots, femme4jack, A Lurker, Jessie07, StarscreamII, Uniasus, Xenophobic Doll, TTFan, Starrie Wolf, Psyche102, Gentle Kit, RevielleWolfie**, and **JetStorm the Sparkling. **

Special thanks to **Lecidre**, who happens to be in the process of amazing me with all her reviews on all the chapters I've been posting over the months. My mind is officially blown.

**Chapter 35**

The pain of ice accumulating in their joints and the nausea induced from the EM fields were nothing compared to the tension mounting in the two bots who were currently scaling down a sheer cliff. The surface was slick with ice; every foothold threatened to crumble under their weight. It was a long way down to the bottom, disappearing into a foreboding murk of darkness below. The only sound made between them was their grunting from the effort of hauling their heavy frames down a wall of death-traps, fingers burning as they clutched futilely to slick crevices, feet slipping on crumbling cracks.

It had taken nearly three joors of quiet reconnaissance to find an area suitable enough for scaling down. Shockwave had predictably possessed the foresight to choose a location whose access was limited. The deeper section of the gorge he had concealed his lair in was surrounded on all sides by sheer metal cliff, ensconced amongst a labyrinth of natural twisting canyons whose walls were warped from time. Main access appeared to be through airships only, requiring vertical lift-off and descent to come and go. Neither Jazz nor Prowl were foolhardy enough to attempt scaling the gorge from where they first discovered Shockwave's base. No doubt the Decepticon had the area wired for motion, sound, and energy signatures.

There was a high chance that simply approaching the base as close as they did had alerted their quarry to their presence.

Nevertheless, Jazz pressed on with a determination that bordered on psychotic. He had searched through the dark for anything that might lead him down into the deeper pit.

For the entirety of the three joors, Prowl had stayed as close as he physically could. He stayed with Jazz as much for his own protection as for his partner's. Whatever sort of hallucination Jazz had suffered during his wild chase through the storm, it seemed to have brought out a mild madness in him. The familiar and haunting disconnect with reality that Prowl recognized from his first few orns of knowing Jazz in Straxis. It was there in the glint of his optics, the way he moved; how the physical world seemed to barely register for him, passing him by like a shade. If he felt the cutting of ice forming in his joints, he gave no hint. Nor did he show further discomfort from the pole's hostile environment. Prowl did not sense outright malevolence in his partner, but instead he sensed the possessed need Jazz now suffered to win whatever game he thought he was playing with Shockwave.

Jazz's determination had brought them to their current predicament, hanging over an abyss some distance away from Shockwave's base. One wrong move would send them plummeting to their deaths.

Prowl fixed his gaze ahead, calculating every nook and cranny he contemplated placing his fingers in. What was the density of the metal? The state of decomposition and instability? The thickness of the ice covering it? He took comfort in the numbers that sped through his processor. A cold comfort, iced over much like the rest of his current situation. His nausea and vertigo had not abated, but instead seemed to throb inside him. Every sudden movement brought about a dizzying, terrifying moment when he thought he was falling to his death. Under normal circumstances, he was not afraid of heights. However, in this special case, the moment he looked down he knew it would be his undoing.

And Primus, did he despise himself for the weakness.

What use was he in this kind of environment? The poles were foreign to him, damaging even with EM shielding in place. Instead of being Jazz's partner, Prowl had become parasitic. He was forced to rely on Jazz's knowledge of the poles to make it through without succumbing to the elements. Prowl was in such a state of vulnerability that he depended solely on Jazz's protection. There was no tactical advantage in possessing a partner of inferior ability. He was a liability. A terrible, worthless liability that could easily get them both killed.

A noise below his feet announced that a hold Jazz had been attempting to use crumbled before he could brace his full weight on it. The saboteur cursed quietly, scrabbling for a new purchase on the slick cliff.

Prowl wished he could cycle air through his vents to clear his head, taunted by the fact that he had to remain airlocked. He focused on the numbers in his head instead. The more he stuck with his most basic programs, the less he suffered in the rest of his frame. The notch to his left held an eighty-seven percent chance of holding his weight; he took it and moved downward. The foothold to his right was sixty-seven percent likely to brace his weight, but crumbled after having three-quarters of his weight braced on it. He sucked in a sharp drag of air, his spark flickering frantically in his chest while his tanks roiled emptily. His leg kicked out, finding another hold with a higher chance of supporting him. This time it held.

"Hey," Jazz called from below. "How are ya holdin' up?"

It was the first full sentence Jazz had used in three joors, and was also the first set of words which acknowledged Prowl's presence in a conscious manner. All previous mutterings had been self-directed and erratic. Prowl made the mistake of looking down at his partner, immediately hit with the consequences of doing something so stupid. He saw the dark stretch of distance awning below them, and no matter how desperately his logic centre fought to recognize the true measurable depth of the pit, his other senses rebelled with a violent fit of vertigo. His visual perception of the world took a sickening flop, rippling, and then whirling in a manner that made his empty tanks roil with a vengeance. If it were not for the automatic locking sequence he induced in all his motor functions, he would have fallen from the wall and already be on his way to a horrible death.

Somewhere below Prowl's feet, a flicker of white glittered in the dark.

"Prowler?"

"I am coping," Prowl replied stiffly.

Silence settled heavily, pregnant for a moment as it felt as if Jazz would say something else. The words never came. Jazz looked down, dashing out the light of his visor, followed by the sound of him resuming his careful trek down the wall.

Prowl clung to his position for a while longer. He waited until the worst of his vertigo faded, and then eased himself down in a far more careful manner than before. His invested in the numbers that flashed through his mind were among one of the few things which kept him focused enough to stay on course. The tension wires in his arms and legs began to feel as if they were made from silicon rather than tensile steel. His joints burned with fatigue. His processor pounded which a chronic headache that had not gone away since entering the boundaries of the pole, becoming worse the longer he stayed.

A gentle pair of hands slid across his armour, bracing his weight at his waist.

"You're almost ta the bottom," Jazz murmured.

Prowl revved weakly, and then almost immediately choked the noise to silence. For one, they could not afford any extra audible noise beyond necessary communication; inter-cranial communication was limited due to Prowl's inability to handle himself in heavy EM conditions. There also was a part of Prowl disgusted by his weakness and was determined to maintain his stoicism. He had been the one to insist on coming on this mission and he would be damned if he was the cause of this mission's failure. A moment of spite for himself nearly had him shaking off Jazz's hands. Common sense reminded him at the last astrosecond that if he shook off Jazz's hands, it was likely he would shake himself off the wall and cause unnecessary noise.

A moment later, the tips of Prowl's feet scraped the ground. He detached from the jagged holding that dug brutally into his fingers; his knees tapped the ground quietly as he knelt. The trembling in his frame from exertion could not be helped, nor could the steady pounding in his head. Prowl did not have the luxury of cycling air to help settle his churning insides, fearing the cold would do more damage. He remained on the ground until he was certain he was stable. By the time he was on his feet again, Jazz had moved a short distance away.

"Jazz?" Prowl murmured hoarsely.

Jazz's silhouette was a faded smudge of gloom. The darkness enveloping him was heavy, seeming to possess a physical quality that shifted in time to the subtle jerk the saboteur gave to acknowledge his designation being called. If Prowl had not been watching the saboteur out of the corner of his optic, he would have lost him completely. To lose Jazz now would be life-threatening for Prowl, and it seemed the sole responsibility of the tactician to keep up with Jazz. Jazz's normal mindset did not tend toward helpfulness, and his current unusual state seemed even less inclined.

Prowl watched his partner stare into nothingness. It was disturbing to think that Jazz might have been able to discern something from the darkness that Prowl could not fathom. The darkness shifted as Jazz crouched, shifting his claws through the frozen debris that littered the ground. He stood up again, walked a short distance down the uneven natural corridor, and then walked back. A strip of white light floating eerily detached in the murk marked Jazz's progress back to Prowl.

There was no reasonable explanation for the prickling feeling of unease which made its way down Prowl's armour. As soon as Jazz was near enough, Prowl reached for him. His long fingers stiffly encircled the saboteur's wrist, briefly surprised by the coldness that radiated from the silver armour. Taking into account the low ambient temperature, Jazz was much colder than he should have been; a dangerously low external temperature which should have indicated plummeting internal temperatures. His lubricants should have started freezing in his lines by now.

It was as if all the energy that would have been used to keep Jazz alive had been diverted elsewhere.

Fumbling for something to say, Prowl settled on the obvious. "You are freezing."

Jazz stared down at the hand that held him and did not seem to recognize it. Behind his visor, his optics flickered as a thousand thoughts whirled by in tandem. His demeanour remained haunted and disconnected, suffering a bout of vagueness until Prowl's hand tightened fractionally around him. His frame jerked, tensing. Suddenly the world came back into focus. His thoughts settled and the mild madness abated long enough to focus on Prowl's faceplate. Blurred details came back into focus, recognition flickering in his optics.

"Ah don't feel cold," Jazz said absently. "Ah don't feel anything at all."

Prowl tugged the mech closer, shuddering as a blast of frigid air blew off the silver bot. "Are you alright?"

"Of course Ah am." He shook his head. His shackled hand tried to tug away to no avail. Prowl was not ready to release him. "Ya may or may not believe meh, but something's wrong."

"I can see that," Prowl said, gaze narrowing on his companion.

"Not with meh. Ah said Ah'm fine." Jazz shifted, again testing the grip on his wrist. Prowl's hand remained like a shackle. He frowned, disliking the mild confinement. "Something else is wrong. Ya know, out there." His chin jerked out in a vague direction.

"What do you mean?" Prowl asked, squinting out into the same darkness which Jazz seemed able to read so well. There did not appear to be any outright signs that something was 'wrong'.

"Ah don't know what Ah mean," Jazz replied distantly, his head turning as he spoke. He stared most intently at all the dark spaces which appeared categorically darker than all the others. He stared as if he could really _see_ something that wasn't there to regular optics.

"Please try to explain it to me," Prowl urged. "I do not want to be blindsides down here. Any insight you can offer would be appreciated."

Jazz's gaze wandered back to Prowl. "It's the same as when Ah look at a bot and know exactly what makes them tick. My master..." he fumbled, shaking his head. "That hallucination Ah chased, it reminded meh that Ah've been wasting mah time looking without really seeing. Now Ah'm seeing. Ah _know_ something is wrong, but Ah can't tell what."

Prowl did not say anything, but instead watched Jazz closely. He could see the madness that lurked in Jazz's mind, glinting in the light of his visor. The madness that had always been there, from the first moment that they had met. The madness would always be there, no matter how changed Jazz had become since he had left Straxis. Prowl knew that his partner's particular brand of madness was a part of what made him so effective at everything he did. It was something that Prowl did not understand, and, if he was completely honest with himself, he knew he would never understand it.

But...

Jazz shifted, tugging on his still-shackled wrist. "Ya wouldn't have followed meh down here if ya didn't trust meh."

"I trust you more than I care to say," Prowl admitted quietly. "But what happens if I let go of you again? I know you will go back to being how you were before; you might forget about me and go running off on your own. You might freeze, or worse- Shockwave might find you." He looked down at his fist as it circled Jazz's wrist. "What will happen if I let you go?"

"I don't know," Jazz breathed, sounding eager and breathless. So long as Prowl held him, he was anchored. But the moment Prowl no longer held him in place... "Let meh go and we'll both find out."

Prowl felt his chest churn uneasily, but it was not from EM-induced nausea. "And if you run? If you forget me?"

A smirk appeared in the light of Jazz's visor, in the way he tilted his head. "Ah could never forget ya. Even back there-" he nodded upwards toward the cliff, "you were in the back of mah mind. Ah went first down the cliff so that if ya fell, Ah'd catch ya. You're not so easy ta forget."

Prowl's fingers loosened, but did not release completely.

Jazz could see the uncertainty that clouded his partner's gaze. In fact, he could see _everything_. He could see Prowl standing in front of him in the gloom, and then he could see more. See deeper. See things he didn't yet understand. He saw things he _did_ understand, like the fear, and the self-deprecation. Wariness, pain, exhaustion, and anger. Prowl's need to trust at war with the logic that dictated nearly all aspects of his life.

"You trust meh, Prowl," Jazz said softly, coaxingly. "Trust meh enough ta let meh go." His free hand came up to rest on the hand that gripped him. Prowl's armour was not nearly as cold as Jazz's, but it trembled nonetheless. "Even if Ah do run, Ah'll only run fast enough so that ya can catch meh in the end. Ya caught meh once and ya can do it again."

Prowl found his fingers unhinging, his hand falling back to his side.

"Thank you," Jazz sighed.

Prowl nodded, observing the immediate change that came over his partner at the loss of their connection. Jazz's visored expression began to cloud as his thoughts scattered. The look of recognition faded. His madness came back, drawing him off into a world of his own that Prowl seemed able to touch but never comprehend. Jazz was at his most dangerous like this, devoid of the developed conscience that had grown on him, but there was no outright malice about him. Amoral, but he wasn't out to hurt anyone for fun.

The distance that came between them as saboteur stepped away seemed like an insurmountable chasm. A rush of empty air blew between them. Every line in the silver mech's frame tensed; his gaze swung elsewhere, seeing things that were invisible to all else but him. Prowl was all but forgotten. He suffered a moment of intense fear, thinking his trust had been for nothing if his partner dashed off. As always, Jazz managed to surprise him.

"Come on," the saboteur murmured without looking back. "We have ta go."

Prowl startled for a moment, and then managed to lurch forward. Jazz was already several steps ahead, near-invisible as he slunk in the shadows. He was as silent as a shadow, more graceful than any creature Cybertron had ever beheld. Prowl was shamefully not as graceful, forced to brace himself against the nearest walls and inch his way along. His equilibrium refused to steady. Every time his feet stumbled, the sound was like a gunshot; too loud, too obvious. At any moment, Shockwave's forces should have been descending upon them because of Prowl's inadequacies.

That worst case scenario never happened.

Neither did the second worse case scenario: Jazz running off. True to his word, he was only fast enough for Prowl to catch him in the end. Beyond that, it was clear that the saboteur had lost himself inside his own head.

They trekked for what felt like joors. Prowl's limbs, already sore from their recent exertion, became like leaden weights. His visor wavered terribly. To spite him, his gyroscopic sensors decided to spin off in all directions and inform him that a straight line was no longer a viable option to walk in. Every shift in the darkness threatened to make him heave. When a break in the darkness came, Prowl did not know if relief was in order or if his own damnation had just been shone on him. Just beyond the cover of the collapsed wall of rocks Jazz now crouched behind was the compact base where Shockwave undoubtedly resided. Prowl fell to his knees at Jazz's side, shocking pain shooting up from the joints as they protested the movement.

"Shh," breathed Jazz.

Prowl resisted the urge to snarl. He found his patience at an all-time low.

Jazz craned his neck to get a better look at the compound. It was a small ensemble, consisting of three buildings in total and a large perimeter surrounding the place. Bright lights illuminated every corner. As Jazz had suspected, there were motion, sound, and energy detectors stationed at intervals around the perimeter. No chances of anyone sneaking in from any direction. The look was compact and utilitarian, with a side of foreboding. The air was several degrees warmer here, charged by the powerful field surrounding the base.

"This is it," the saboteur murmured, exhilaration making his tone breathless.

Prowl squinted against the stark lights that glared over the utilitarian base. "I had expected something a little more foreboding."

"It's what's inside that counts," Jazz replied with poisonous delight. He had forgotten about his promise to check for the missing Neutrals Moonracer had solicited from him. He had probably forgotten that promise long before arriving in this place. Instead, Jazz's focus was Shockwave. All it had taken was a few mysterious files about the scientist and one meeting with him and Jazz knew he had found a challenge in the Decepticon scientist. Someone who was ruthless, sparkless, and not afraid to go beyond the limits of depravity. Shockwave was Jazz's equal in some way, and the thrill of hunting the monster down and besting him, slaughtering him, elicited the same excitement that solving the complex mess called "Prowl" did.

A frown laced with tension bracketed Prowl's mouthplates. He raised a hand to the side of his head where the throbbing was the worst. "How do you propose we get inside? I assume someone like Shockwave would have this place highly guarded."

"It's highly monitored, but not highly guarded," Jazz replied while his sharp optics surveyed everything there was to see. His vagueness was transformed into a deadly form of focus as sharp as a diamond blade. "Shockwave is too Top Secret ta have too many Decepticons around. He'd have access ta a limited, permanent crew, but he likes his science more. He'd rely on his own machinations more than anyone else."

"You gathered this from a couple of files on this bot and a single meeting with him?" Prowl wondered skeptically.

"If Ah were lookin' ta keep mah existence and the things Ah did a secret, then it's what Ah would do. Actually, Ah'd just kill everyone and go do mah own thing, but Shockwave has take make a couple of concessions for science," Jazz said. "Just look around. Do ya see anyone watching the perimeter?"

In truth, Prowl did not see anyone. Not a living spark appeared to be anywhere within or near the vicinity of the base. The full extent of the lifelessness of the base brought about a disturbing uncanny sense. He did not like how quiet the setting was. Even if there was only a limited team assigned to Shockwave, there should have been evidence of those members somewhere on the base. Prowl slid a wary glance in Jazz's direction and saw that the saboteur had already realized the same thing. They had found Shockwave's lair, but there was something terribly wrong about it.

"Ya know, Ah don't even see any lights on," observed the silver mech, frowning at the black windows that stared back at him with accusing optics.

Prowl repressing the rising tide of dread within him. "Energy-saving implementation?" he offered futilely.

"No," Jazz replied. After a moment, he added, "Ah don't like this. Doesn't feel right. Doesn't look right."

"Perhaps this is the thing you sensed was "wrong" when we first came down to this level?" Prowl said.

"Maybe." A long silence followed, while Jazz stared unblinkingly at the base with an intensity that bordered on insanity.

_'It __**is**__ insanity,'_ Prowl thought wryly as he sat hunched over, cradling his head in his hands. He could not bear to think of what it might mean in the base was already evacuated. There were too many conclusions to fathom, but the most prominent of which did not bode well for Prowl or certain members of his supposed "family". Shockwave would have first needed to learn of someone on his trail before he would be prompted to leave such a well-equipped and advantageously remote facility. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise. The informant would have had to of been someone aware of Jazz and Prowl's movements, and only one designation came to mind.

The sickly churning tide of dread roiling inside of Prowl got worse.

Jazz shifted, a soft growl emanating from him. "No one's been in or out of any of the buildings for at least a couple of orns." His fist clenched tightly, landing one quick, violent punch to the ground.

While the movement itself did not surprise the tactician, it was the sudden waft of warm air that drifted from Jazz that proved unexpected. What once had been an internal glacier prompted by what Prowl suspected was an internalization of the power reserves necessary to support the higher power complex thought patterns Jazz's processor was capable of, was now transformed into something else entirely. Daring a glance at his partner's faceplate, Prowl was comfortable to hazard a guess that Jazz was not overly pleased to know that Shockwave had got the better of him. All of their combined effort, the orns they spent flying here, tracking through this Primus-foresaken pit, all for nothing because Jazz's real prey had already moved on. If anything, this would cement the saboteur's obsession with the Decepticon scientist, much in the same way it had cemented his relationship with Prowl.

That anger inspired by Shockwave's perceived superiority in whatever personal competition Jazz had conjured in his head now translated into an outpouring of heat. Any hotter and steam might have started billowing from him.

"Jazz-."

"Don't," the saboteur snapped. "Ah don't want ta hear it."

"Too bad," Prowl said, forcing himself to sit straight and and not appear weak. He did not want to risk Jazz attempting to prey upon his weaknesses because he was in a bad mood. "Shockwave may not be here-."

"He's not. He's gone," Jazz spat, the light behind his visor briefly flashing red. "That fragger knew we were coming."

"Nevertheless, we still have a mission to complete," Prowl said.

"But-!"

"No, listen to me. Regardless of Shockwave's presence, or lack thereof, you agreed to come out here because of Moonracer. You told me she asked you to find out if Shockwave had taken Neutrals from this area; you were to find them, and, if possible, bring them back. Those were the original parameters of this mission. They will be carried out."

Jazz fixed Prowl with a glare so potent that the tactician briefly wondered if he was about to be assaulted by his partner.

The blaze of white behind that inscrutable diamond visor reached a fever pitch just as the tactician took a calculated risk by reaching out and wrapping his long fingers around Jazz's hand. He gave the lukewarm appendage a squeeze. He felt the warmth radiate through his own armour, waking his numb neural circuits from stasis. White light flickered for a moment, and then came the expected shift the heralded Jazz's return to mild lucidity. He sagged, tension draining out of him. Rage still boiled beneath the surface, but now held at bay with the steadiness of Prowl's touch.

"Ah hate it when ya make sense like that," the silver bot murmured, though he didn't pull his hand away.

"Lucky for you, I tend to make enough sense for the both of us," Prowl sighed, only to grimace. If he was not mistaken, the burning sensation currently searing the inside of his cranium was a set of neural circuits within his processor burning themselves out. "Ah..." His hand came to the side of his head of its own volition.

Jazz's expression morphed into blatant concern, leaning in to get a better look at Prowl's shadowed faceplate. "You're not doing so well, are ya?"

"I believe my head will split in two if I remain out here any longer," Prowl lamented, though it might have been a poor attempt at humour. His dim optics peered up at Jazz with evidence of a wan smirk. "At the very least, smoke will begin to billow out of the cracks in my plating."

"As soon as we're outta here, we're gonna work on your sense of humour," Jazz said.

"I will add that to my list," Prowl drawled.

Jazz murmured something else, but Prowl did not catch it. He barely even noticed when the saboteur shook his hand loose of the frosted fingers that held him. It was only from the edge of his blurring vision did he see familiar silver claws running alongside his faceplate, not quite touching. The air flexed with the disturbances in Prowl's personal field, tingling down Jazz's sensitive palm. A secondary charge came into the air as the generators in the saboteur's palm activated.

"That will make it worse," Prowl coughed, leaning away tensely.

"Oh. Right." Jazz leaned away, his faceplate frowning behind his battlemask. Prowl did not have the strength to meet his partner's gaze, but he _felt_ the clarity with which he was being evaluated. The sharp, lucid gaze of someone who wasn't lost inside their own heads anymore. Jazz's concern for him had been enough to finally allow the saboteur to settle down.

"Ah'm gonna find a way in, alright? Stay here an' don't move. Ah'll be right back."

Before Prowl could reply, whether to object to being left behind or wish the stupid fragger luck in trying to break in, Jazz was gone. In the cold emptiness that followed, Prowl resigned himself to the fact that he was not going anywhere. In fact, he was going to make himself comfortable while he waited for Jazz to return. His frozen joints ached as he shifted over the uneven ground. Eventually he found a reasonable spot to rest his back, leaning his head against the collapsed wall in a way that did not make it want to explode. He blinked once, twice, and then let his shutters stay lowered over his optics. The soothing dark was better than the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights behind him.

Since his chronometer was not operating properly, Prowl could only guess that he sat like that for several breems before a soft laugh caught his attention. Not Jazz's laughter, either. He reacted as quickly as he could, whipping out a blade and aiming it in the direction the noise had come from. His vision blurred for a moment with his rapid movement; it took an agonizing astrosecond for the diodes to adjust themselves, images coming back into focus. Prowl nearly choked when he saw who was sitting with him, the tip of his blade poised at the vulnerable hollow of her throat.

A smile lit up the femme's familiar features.

"Hello, bright spark," she said, the quality of her voice making her seem like she were both close and very far away.

"Evasia." The designation fell from Prowl's mouthplates breathless and ethereal, like the ghost that sat before him. His spark lurched painfully in his sparkcase, a sudden burning that had nothing to do with electromagnetic fields and everything to do with a deep-seated sense of longing and regret that Prowl had never been able to let go of.

Evasia did not appear bothered by her lacklustre greeting. Instead, she laughed quietly again, flashing a smile that was perfectly in proportion with her delicate, narrow faceplate. Her optics glowed like twin blue stars, two jewels set into an achingly familiar background. Her paint glittered a sweet, mellow, and sensible light blue-grey. Her chevron was the same enchanting shade of teal it had always been.

"You look surprised to see me," she said.

Prowl floundered for words, managing to point out the obvious. "You are a hallucination."

"Of course I am," Evasia replied warmly. "You are currently sitting dangerously near the south pole of Cybertron during a heavy EM storm. Being as susceptible as you are to the ambient energies, it is perfectly logical that you would be hallucinating right now."

Prowl's raised arm dropped like a heavy weight, his knife clattering away to disappear in the dark. He stared without fully accepting what he was seeing. He could not recall if there was proper protocol for experiencing a hallucination; was there some kind of visual reboot program to rid himself of the illusion?

"For someone so smart, my dear Prowl, you could try a little harder not to look so dumbfounded," Evasia intoned teasingly. "You always were so easy to confuse when things did not suit your logic." Her smile, her faceplate, the sound of her voice, the way she was sitting; every detail was exactly as it had been when she was alive.

"I...have never hallucinated before," Prowl said in place of a proper apology. He surmised that it was the vividness of the experience that was tripping him up. Evasia's presence was so clear, so _intense_, that Prowl could almost feel the energy of her spark brushing against his own.

"There's a first time for everything," Evasia replied cheerfully. "You experienced many firsts with me, remember?"

"Why am I hallucinating you?" he croaked.

Her head tilted to the right, her chevron glinting in the light. "There must have been a part of you that wanted to see me."

"This is Jazz's doing," Prowl rationalized quickly. "I allowed him into my mind. He was the one who stirred up memories of you." He shuttered his optics tightly, waited an astrosecond, and then opened them again. Evasia was still sitting where he left her. Her smile turned sad as she leaned forward, rocking onto her knees without a sound. The tips of her long, pointed fingers nearly brushed his faceplate. Prowl flinched away from her touch.

"I do not deserve to see you," he admitted, voice cracking. "Please go away."

"I don't think that is how these things work," Evasia admitted regretfully. "Why do you think you don't deserve to see me?"

"After what I did to you, of all bots..." He wished it was warm enough to cycle air. Instead, he remained stifled in his own frame, choking on the emotions that were suddenly bubbling up in him. Old wounds opening up with new energon to bleed. "I _loved_ you, Evasia. You're the one who taught me to love. What did I do in return? _I.._." He couldn't even say it. He gritted his mouthplates and finished with, "I do not deserve to see you now after what happened."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded curtly.

Evasia's fingers twined together thoughtfully, her gaze contemplative. "You have been punishing yourself ever since I died, haven't you?"

"I have been trying to prevent my mistakes from happening again. I will not be weak again."

Evasia looked truly hurt by his words. "It was a mistake to feel for me, Prowl? You were weak because you loved me?"

"No!" he exclaimed, not knowing why he was bothering to humour this hallucination. It wasn't real. The whole thing was just a figment of his mind being transposed on reality due to the heavy electromagnetic energies saturating the atmosphere. "No, Evasia, I-!"

She watched him with wide, expectant optics.

Prowl stared at the ground. "I do not know what to tell you."

"Good thing I'm not real," Evasia said softly. "You don't need to explain yourself to a hallucination." She reached out and made the motion of patting his knee, though the air didn't even move as she ghosted her hand over him. More proof that she was more alive in Prowl's mind than she was in the physical reality. "You know what would be better? If you made peace with yourself."

He could not bring himself to look up again. His pale gaze remained firmly planted on the ground, able to see Evasia's shins and her distinct lack of a shadow. "I do not understand."

"What happened to me was an accident, Prowl. Nobody was at fault, least of all you," she breathed. "But you locked me away after that. You locked away everything that had to do with me. All those wonderful emotions you learned, how to be happy, and sad, and angry, and loved- you let them be poisoned, and then you bottled them up and pretended they didn't exist anymore. Look at what it's done to you! It's eaten you up inside until it became...what is it called?"

"Emotional Maximum Output," Prowl answered automatically, thick with shame.

"Ah, yes,_ EMO,_" Evasia said lightly, as unjudgemental as she had been in life. "Did you ever think that it would be better if you tried to make peace instead of punishing yourself for things that weren't your fault?"

He shuttered his optics, but it did nothing to block out her voice.

"I know this is a hard concept for you, but forgiving yourself is healthy, Prowl. It's the right thing to do; if I were still alive, it's what I would have wanted you to do. There is so much you can give if you just opened your spark up to others again." There came an impish laugh, breathless and ghostly around the edges. "Take that partner of yours, for instance. He's a wild one, isn't he? Imagine how much more you could give each other if you just made peace with yourself-."

"Enough of this," Prowl snapped. "Go away. You have no business here."

A long silence followed, filled in by a voice that definitely did not belong to his dead ex-lover.

"Ah got no business?" Jazz wondered perplexedly. "Aren't ya the one who told meh Ah had ta stay?"

Prowl stared with optics that he knew looked wild. Evasia was gone with no sign of her ever being there. Of course there was no sign; hallucinations never left a mark except on the minds they were tormenting. For all Prowl's desire to have her gone, he suddenly found himself regretting his harshness. He wished he could have said goodbye.

"Ya okay?" Jazz asked when he failed to get a response to his first question.

"Yes, yes, of course. I am fine." His hands were shaking as they came up to scrub his face. His headache came back with a vengeance, searing like a red hot poker behind his optics. Another set of circuits burned out. "No, correction, I am not fine." He squinted through the pain. "It seems my perception of the colour red has now been compromised."

Jazz rocked back on his heels. "It could be worse. Red's an overrated colour," he shrugged. "So, ya wanna tell meh why Ah ain't got business here?"

"I was not speaking to you," Prowl gritted out through the pounding in his cranium. "I fear I was hallucinating. She was...someone I was not ready to talk to."

"Anyone Ah would know?" Jazz wondered absently as he crouched, taking one of Prowl's arms over his shoulder to help the other mech stand.

Prowl drew his mouthplates into a thin line. "No, not anyone you've met," he moderated. "Did you find a way in?"

"Yeah, we got lucky," Jazz grunted, taking most of Prowl's weight without complaint. They moved slowly together, slightly out of sync. Jazz's arm wrapped tightly around Prowl's back and kept his partner tucked close to his side. "An ice sheet fell down from the overhang up above on the south side. It's piercing the shield, making it weak. We can push through with relatively little trouble."

"Good."

"Ya can rest against meh a little more," Jazz murmured. "You're not that heavy."

"I can walk."

"Says the mech who's been dragging his aft since we dumped the ship."

Prowl scowled, thrusting his weight in such a way to cause Jazz to stumble. Jazz hissed, his feet slipping on ice. They both nearly fell on their afts.

"How's that for dragging my aft?" Prowl snorted.

"Like a microbot could do better," Jazz sneered. "You're lucky Ah disabled all the motion sensors while Ah came through here or ya would have set them all off with your flailing."

"I am _not_ flailing."

"Ya sure ain't walking in a straight line, either." Jazz dipped his shoulder and hitched Prowl's weight higher so both of them would be more comfortable. "That's not the only reason Ah took 'em out, though. If Shockwave's anything like meh, then he would have rigged the base ta explode if any of his sensors were tripped."

"If he couldn't have this base, no one could?"

"Exactly."

Prowl nodded. "That does sound like something you would do."

Flickering light announced the section of shielding where the ice sheet had fallen through. It was a massive piece of jagged glacier shrouded in a thin haze of steam from the force of the energy shielding burning through it. Its sulfur-saturated body glittered as if covered in millions of yellow diamonds. High above was the titanic overhang it came from, a shadowy monolith whose tapered ice-claws curled down as if reaching to rip the sparks out of anyone unfortunate enough to be below it.

"Beautiful, ain't it?" Jazz breathed.

"Intimidating," Prowl replied.

Jazz leaned his free shoulder against the force field, so close to the glacier that flakes of ice chipped off on his armour. Sparks flashed over the silver paint. He pressed until his shoulder passed through. He turned to Prowl and held him closer. "It'll sting going through."

"Don't care," Prowl grunted, shoving all of his weight against the saboteur so that they tumbled to the ground together. Their legs tangled and their armour chinked together. They landed in an ungraceful heap, their heads slamming together so hard that they both saw stars. Jazz huffed as Prowl's full weight landed on him. Prowl, on the other hand, could only sag in relief as the pressure in his head was instantly neutralized. The effects of the shielding were nearly immediate, settling his churning tanks and clearing his vision. It felt as if a massive weight had been lifted from him.

"I have never felt so good in my life," he sighed.

"Really? An' we haven't even gotten ta the good stuff yet," Jazz laughed, bracing his hands against Prowl's shoulders to lever the other bot away. "At least let meh get mah cable out before ya start complimenting meh on mah performance."

"You know what I meant," Prowl snorted, pushing to his feet and helping Jazz to his feet. His joints still ached from the cold, thawing out with every moment he spent in the slightly warmer environment within the base's shielding. He rolled his shoulders, listening to the loud pops and cracks. A final satisfying full-frame crack came when his iced over vents all popped open at the same time, cycling some desperately needed air through his stifled systems.

Jazz cracked his vents open and cycled air, stretching his arms above his head to work out all the kinks at the same time.

"How do ya feel now?" wondered the saboteur.

"Much better," Prowl replied. "I still can't see the colour red, though."

"Ratchet will replace the circuitry. Or we can stop by Tyger Pax on our way back and get Grimm to-."

"No."

"Ya sure?"

"Yes."

Jazz chuckled. "Fine then, be that way. Ya feeling up ta canvasing this place ta see if Shockwave left anything useful behind, or ya want ta rest for a bit?"

Prowl tilted a shoulder up in a half-shrug. "I have been useless for too long. I would rather get to work immediately to make up for lost time."

A smirk curved Jazz's features. "How about we raid the energon stores first? Ah'm willing ta bet something must have been left behind, and Ah'm a little low on reserves."

"Do you think they might be rigged to blow if we touch anything?"

"If they are, Ah'll disable anything before it has a chance ta blow. You forget, Ah've been sneaking in ta places long before ya came online. Ah'm so good at this, Ah make it look like an art form." And then he winked.

Instead of rolling his optics at the wink as he once might have, Prowl was instead reminded of the words granted by his hallucination. Advice he had not wanted to hear, and he still did not want to comprehend.

"Come on, store rooms are probably this way," Jazz said, waving a hand absently as he set off across the empty grounds.

Prowl followed automatically without trouble. He walked in a straight line as if it were second nature to him. It was nice to have his equilibrium back.

"I have a question for you," the tactician intoned, causing Jazz to slow down.

"Yeah?"

"When you hallucinated earlier, you said you saw your master."

Now Jazz stopped dead in his tracks, inching around until he could fix Prowl with a wary stare.

"What about her?"

Prowl frowned, choosing his words carefully. "Was she someone you wanted to see?"

A sharp laugh like a gunshot escaped Jazz, mirthless and cold. "Ah can honestly say Ah'd be fine living the rest of mah life never seeing that glitch's faceplate again."

"Oh."

Another huff of noise left the saboteur, this time softer and quieter. "Doesn't mean Ah didn't _need_ ta see her, Prowl. Without her, we wouldn't be here right now. We'd still be wandering around out there, completely blind."

Prowl drew away cautiously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "So you think your hallucination held some purpose?"

"If what Ah saw really was a hallucination, then yeah, she showed up ta teach meh another lesson. Same as she's always done."

Something about the phrasing caught Prowl off guard. "If she were not a hallucination, what would she have been?"

"Ah've been asking mahself the same question for vorns," Jazz murmured dryly. "It's like ya said- the poles have ways of playing tricks on us."

Prowl knew he was revealing more than he meant by the look on his faceplate. Jazz could see it plain as dawn.

"You're not really asking meh about what Ah saw, are ya? It's what ya saw that's bothering ya."

Knowing there was no point in lying, Prowl confirmed it with a quick nod.

Jazz canted his head, his expression pensive. "Prowler, Ah don't know if Ah got the right words ya wanna hear. Whatever ya saw out there, it might not have been what ya _wanted_ ta see, but it might have been something ya _needed_."


	36. Chapter 36

If you are asking yourself how this chapter exists after I lamented in the last chapter that life has been hard, the reason is... _I'm dead and this is my ghost typing_! Okay, no, for serious: I had this wicked bout of inspiration and ended up writing this chapter in less than twenty-four hours. A lot of it had to do with the amazing response for the last chapter. I could have cried from the love and understanding so many people showed, not to mention how many readers sounded eager to find out what happened next. And with me being so eager to show off what Shockwave has been playing with in his little lair of horrors... I was absolutely _possessed_ with finishing this chapter.

I do hope you all enjoy it. Or are horrified by it. Or both. ^_^

Major thanks to the reviewers of the last chapter who reminded me that life is still worth living and this story is still worth continuing: **DemonSurfer, VyxenSkye, Katea-Nui, A Lurker, renegadewriter8, Boredtech, Psyche102, Camfield, Daklog73, Anodythe, Kai-chan94, TransformersLover95, MoonWallker, White Aster, ReveilleWolfie, Pruhana, Wanderling, StarscreamII, sparklespepper, Faecat, CNightJoy, luinrina, Peacewish, Fianna9, Muffing, Optimus Bob, Sideslip, Prowls-little-angel, smoking caramels, femme4jack, SwedishDragon, evilbunny777, Midnight Marquis, Wise Crack Idiots,** and **Astsadi.**

My love for you people only grows.

**Chapter 36**

"Ah can't believe they didn't leave any energon behind," Jazz sighed, kneeling on the floor of the generator room below the base. His arms had disappeared up to their elbows into an open access panel in the side of one of the large generators that lined the floor.

Prowl leaned his shoulder against the warm metal of the machine, watching his partner work. He did not offer his thoughts concerning the bare state of the energon storeroom that had just come from. It was unfortunate that every cube had been taken, but it was not necessarily unexpected. Energon was a resource that could scarcely be wasted by being left behind.

Jazz was not surprised by the lack of response. Prowl had been even less talkative than he normally was ever since they came onto base. Obviously it was because of what he had hallucinated out in the cold. Jazz was curious about it, but he wasn't about to press for details. Instead, he carried on his one-sided conversation for the pure fact that he knew it would bother Prowl enough to get him to start talking again.

"Ah'm not asking for much, am Ah?" he intoned, casting a brief glance in Prowl's direction. The tactician was not looking directly at him, but instead at the place where Jazz's arms disappeared inside the access panel. "A single cube would'a been nice, y'know? Even half a cube. A quarter. Ah'd even take a poisoned cube, if it was decent enough energon."

Something snapped closed on his finger, gouging the metal.

"Frag," he cursed, jerking his offended finger out to inspect it. There was a small nick in the metal near his joint; he flexed his finger and frowned when the movement stung a little. The internal designs of the generators were unique to Jazz's careful optic; he had never seen the likes of them before, not on Autobot nor Decepticon bases. Shockwave most likely designed them himself to cope in the hostile environment. One thing to note about them was that they appeared to be three hundred more times efficient than any generator currently in use by anyone else.

Unfortunately, their unique designs also made it harder to fiddle around inside them.

Prowl shifted, his optics darting down for a moment to inspect Jazz's minor wound.

"Ah got pinched, is all," Jazz intoned when he sensed his partner's attention.

"Be more careful," said the tactician, his gaze wandering from Jazz to the rest of the large, rumbling room. Generators lined up down the middle of the room in perfectly measured paces, hooked up to pipes and wires and other feats of machinery that that tactician did not know. He had little training in engineering, and the basics of energy distribution were foreign to him aside from efficiency calculations. Prowl hadn't known what to expect when he and Jazz came down to this level. Dirt? Dust? Screaming victims? The dismembered frames of the missing Neutrals? Instead, they were met with a manner of orderly spotlessness that bordered on psychotic the same way Prowl fussed about the order of his desk or Jazz obsessed over being the best at something. Even the design of the whole lower level was stunningly efficient. There did not appear to be a single detail out of place.

If this were not the creation of an arguably demented Decepticon scientist, Prowl felt that the engineers of Iacon base would do well by taking notes on Shockwave's designs.

"Yeah. Careful. Sure." Jazz rolled his optics and returned to his work. If he bent low, he could see the muted glow of energon as it was piped through the machine. There had to be a release valve somewhere. An emergency pressure valve. Something he could break open with a poke of his claw. _Something_.

"Ya sure don't like ta make things easy, do ya?" Jazz cursed softly, promising to himself that the moment he _did_ find Shockwave, he was going to punch him in the faceplate just for making it hard to steal energon from him.

"What was that?" Prowl wondered, assuming he was the one being cursed at.

"Nothing," Jazz sighed.

Prowl nodded silently. Much to his embarrassment, his tanks decided that this was the perfect moment to remind everyone present of how empty they currently were. The silent alert flashing across his vision was not enough, now his tanks had to demand with an audio cue. A humiliating audio cue. A low internal groan came from deep inside him as air passed through empty cavities. While it could be said that the noise of hunger was better than suffering from EM-induced nausea, Prow much would have preferred to keep his need for energon to himself.

Jazz smirked. "That was you, wasn't it?"

"Who else would it have been?" Prowl muttered stubbornly, turning his faceplate away.

"Ghosts?" Jazz offered lightly.

"Not likely," Prowl countered with a snort.

Jazz chuckled lowly. "Alright, just give meh an astrosecond ta figure this thing out and Ah'll have ya some energon."

"This is taking longer than I thought it would," Prowl commented with some amount of consternation lacing his tone. It seemed his hunger was driving him into a more conversational mood. "Isn't there a lever you can disengage? A valve, maybe?"

"Sure there is, and as soon as Ah find it that's exactly what Ah'm gonna do," Jazz drawled, accompanied by the sounds of his continued work. "This ain't exactly mah area of expertise. Ah'm not an engineer, y'know?"

"You have more experience than I do," Prowl pointed out.

Jazz snorted.

One optic ridge arched expectantly. "Don't try to tell me you haven't ripped memories from engineers before."

"Sure Ah have," Jazz replied easily, not bothering to deny the fact. "But stealing knowledge and abilities from bots don't mean Ah always know how ta use what Ah got. Knowing something is easier than actually puttin' it inta practice."

"Fair enough," Prowl acknowledged with a small nod. To keep his mind off his demanding tanks, he asked, "Do you remember much of what you take from others?"

Jazz frowned, considering the answer. "Not all of it. Faceplates, designations, places... Those things didn't register with meh before Ah met you. Ah'd forget them as soon as Ah moved on ta something more interesting." He shrugged, his back to Prowl while he crouched for a better look at what he was doing. He was getting close to figuring out what all the doodads and thingamajigs were meant for.

"What of the information that was not faceplates, designations, and places? How much of that do you remember?" Prowl wondered, choosing not to linger on the '_before Ah met you_' part. It was already an accepted fact that they were both changed bots from when they first met.

"Most of it," Jazz admitted. "Anything Ah want ta remember, Ah'll remember. It just tumbles around in mah head until Ah need it. Ah don't defrag mah hard drives or clean out my data caches as obsessively as you do, but Ah manage ta keep everything in order enough for meh ta understand it. It's just the way Ah am."

"You amaze me sometimes," Prowl murmured, careful not to look directly at his partner as he said the words.

"Give meh another astrosecond and you'll be even more amazed," Jazz grunted. From within the large machine he was handling, there came a muted click and a long, low hiss as the pressure released.

"Okay, give meh a cube," the silver mech ordered, one hand freeing itself from the innards of the machine to motion in the air distractedly. Prowl quickly handed over the ready cube, which then disappeared into the generator. A moment later, a drainage spout was opened and energon oozed out into the container. Once the cube was full, Jazz withdrew it and held it out.

"It's gonna be disgusting, but at least it's something," he said with a shrug.

Prowl murmured his thanks before taking a mouthful, gagging as the slimy and gritty flavour hit him. Energon used in operating heavy machinery was distilled differently from energon meant for consumption; different manufacturing processes, different additives so that it was a thicker, more viscous fluid that was less likely to ignite when applied to high temperatures. Although it was compatible with living Cybertronain systems, it was not a very pleasant form of energy to consume.

This was not the first time Prowl had been forced to drink energon meant for a machine, but the flavour remained as disgusting as the first time he'd tried it.

Jazz watched the progress of the energon from the cube, frowning when Prowl started to pull away. "Finish it," he ordered.

"You need some too," Prowl pointed out, offering the cube back.

Jazz pushed it away. "Ah'll get mah own. Ya need it more than Ah do."

Prowl cast a stubborn look down to his partner. "Seems a little ridiculous to have me finish this when I am only going to purge it when we leave this place."

"You're just complaining 'cause it's disgusting," Jazz countered. "We'll deal with what happens when we leave later. At least while we're in here ya can absorb most of the energy ta recharge your energy reserves."

Seeing the logic in such an argument, Prowl ceded to his fate. With great reluctance, he finished the cube just as Jazz finished filling his own. With no hesitation at all, the silver mech tilted his head back and finished the cube off as if it were nothing. He even ran his fingertip around the rim and sucked off the sludge that accumulated there. Prowl's incredulity must have been blatantly obvious, because as soon as Jazz caught his stare, he sent the tactician a rakish grin.

"Believe it or not, this is not the worst stuff Ah've ever had," Jazz laughed, wiping his mouthplates with the back of his hand.

"I cannot fathom what could be worse," Prowl intoned flatly.

"Consider yourself lucky ya _can't_ imagine it," Jazz replied wryly.

Overhead, the lights flickered enough to pause the rest of their conversation. Both bots stared upward to scrutinize the bare fixtures above them, seeing no obvious cause for the disruption. Exposed pipes echoed with hollowed groans, rattling against their brackets. The generator Jazz sat next to rumbled deeply, its body shaking. Ominous static sounded above them as an automated message came on:

"_Generator 4 has exceeded recommended pressure levels. Relieving pressure in 5, 4, 3-." _

Prowl grabbed Jazz and yanked him from the floor, both of them running for cover just as the open panel in the side of the generator ejected a massive spray of bright blue energon. It hit the opposite wall with enough explosive force to leave a small crater. Ricocheted sprays of energon flew everywhere, spattering the floor, walls, and ceiling in a scene of bizarre gore. Prowl and Jazz ducked around generator 3 and slid to the floor until the roaring sound of pressurized energon tapered off into wet gurgling.

"Told ya Ah wasn't an engineer," Jazz joked, shaking his arms to dislodge the spatters of energon that clung to him. "Ah don't even know how Ah managed ta over-pressurize that thing."

"During your memory-stealing escapades, did you ever happen to steal memories from Wheeljack?" Prowl enquired wearily, tipping his head to the side to shake loose a gob of energon in his audio.

Jazz groaned, banging the back of his head against the heavy metal behind him. "Yeah, Ah did. In mah defence, Ah did it before Ah knew he was an idiot."

"At least you didn't blow the place up," Prowl sighed, peering around the corner to make sure the coast was clear. He tensed when a shadow flickered in the open doorway. His hand flew for a weapon, which instantly had Jazz reacting for battle.

"Decepticons?" Jazz hissed.

"Wait a moment," Prowl warned, wary to jump out without formulating an appropriate attack plan.

Any planning turned out to be needless as a pair of mid-sized drones wandered into the room. They held a wet-vac between them, dragging it toward the mess their calibrated sensors would have picked up the moment the generator depressurized. They squeaked at each other as if exclaiming over the waste of energon, proceeded by their mindless mission to clean it up.

"Drones," Prowl breathed, relaxing. "Two of them."

Jazz leaned back with a frown, putting away the two stained blades he'd brought out. "That's strange."

"How so?"

"Shockwave packed up every drop of energon he could, but he left his drones behind? Doesn't seem like something he'd do."

Prowl peered at the drones again. "They look like maintenance drones, not speciality designs; expendable resources. Besides, if we failed to find this place, the drones would have continued with maintenance until Shockwave was able to return. I imagine Shockwave attended to every possible contingency plan."

"True, Ah suppose," Jazz admitted with some amount of reluctance.

One of the drones slipped in a puddle of energon, falling with a screech and a crash. It's partner squeaked in admonishment, proceeding to wet-vac right over the fallen drone as if it wasn't there.

"Come on, let's get moving," Jazz said, ushering Prowl from the room without disturbing the pair of drones.

They made it back into the corridor and found the set of stairs they originally took to get down to the generator level. Back in the building above, everything remained eerily still. Just as before, an ominous feeling permeated the atmosphere. It was a strange tension that was difficult to pinpoint, an omnipresent sensation in the air possessing a physical weight and awareness. While the base was essentially empty, save for the presence of two bumbling drones currently flailing around on the floor below, there never ceased to be an evanescent malaise. A tasteless, colourless, odourless miasma that seeped into every crevice, every corner, and clung like a film to every surface.

Jazz felt the touch of wrongness in the air and it set him on edge. It was much like when he had first heard Bluestreak's shattered wails, seeing him writhing across the floor of his cage while trapped in a nightmare made by his own memories. He could not be sure if it was his own affinity for depravity that made him acutely aware of his surroundings, but he knew that whatever Shockwave had been doing in the base, the disturbed nature of it had somehow settled into the very foundation. Even the particles in the air seeped with a sense of unease. The longer Jazz remained in touch with it, the more he could feel it being absorbed into him. Dark filth he could feel settling on his armour, filling him up inside.

Prowl was less attuned to the unnatural disposition of the base. Although he did feel off-put by the sheer unwelcoming sense of the foreboding empty space, he did not sense depravity in the air as sharply as Jazz did. Instead, he mused over the existence of the base and allowed himself to be disturbed that such a creation could be built without a single living Autobot aware of its existence. Reasonably, Cybertron was a large planet and its entire surface could not be monitored at all times. However, the massive amount of materials, energon, and bots needed to construct and maintain a compound like this... how could no one see anything? Scouts lined the borders between Kaon and Tyger Pax. Someone should have seen something before it moved too far south into the poles. How had Shockwave managed to remain invisible? Assuming he had been practising his brand of science for longer than just the war, how was it possible no one had ever heard his designation before?

Together, they passed into an enclosed walkway between one building to the next. Its transparent panels gave them a stunning view of the towering glacier on the south side. It was still an intimidating sight, though Prowl held a new appreciation for it. A low rumble announced a large chunk from the upper half of the glacier crumbling from the body, crashing into the shield. Sparks flew into the dark air, obscured in a haunting haze of white-grey steam.

They did not notice the danger happening much closer to them.

A red light flickered on above the door they just passed through; a warning light. Jazz remained distracted by the glacier. Prowl was unable to see the red hue of the warning light. A heavy steel door slid and locked into place. It was only when the tumblers of the lock fell into place that Jazz jerked around to stare at the now blocked entrance.

"Slag," he grunted, grabbing Prowl's wrist. "The glacier must have set off a seismic warning system."

"What-?"

A secondary door slid shut at the opposite end of the walkway. Vents in the floor snapped open, heralding the hiss of a heavy powdery vapour being pumped in.

Jazz dug his heels in, Prowl ramming into his back. "Not a seismic warning system," he corrected himself.

"Trap?" Prowl wondered.

"We must have tripped something when we walked in here." Jazz withdrew a plasma blaster, aiming for the door ahead of them. "Ah'll get us out. The saturation is still low; if Ah ignite the gas, it'll probably just singe our afts."

Prowl cycled air, and then coughed.

"It's not gas," he wheezed, heaving to clear his vents.

"What?"

"Not gas!" Prowl grabbed Jazz's wrist before the saboteur could fire. He cycled the powdery air through his vents more carefully a second time, immediately identifying the substance as one of the most dangerous elements known to Cybertronians. His hand cinched tighter around Jazz's wrist. "Please tell me my sensors are wrong about what element is currently pouring in through the vents."

Jazz jerked his arm away, scanning his surroundings. He nearly choked on the information. "Magnesium."

"Magnesium powder," Prowl confirmed darkly.

Of all the elements in the known universe, magnesium was among one of the most dangerous to Cybertronians. Among its significant properties were its ability to burn in nearly any kind of atmosphere, burning at extremely high temperatures, and being nearly impossible to put out. Weaponized forms could have catastrophic effects in battle. When ignited, magnesium could burn through a Cybertronian's armour in _astroseconds_. What made flash powder particularly dangerous was that it could get inside a bot's vents, work its way toward the heat of the spark, and ignite from a touch of the spark's energy. In a sudden flash of bright white light, a bot could burn into a blackened husk from the inside out and there would be nothing to do to help him.

All vents on Prowl and Jazz's frames sealed tight to prevent any more powder from entering them.

"Shockwave sure knows how to plan for every possibility," Jazz spat, glaring at the thickening haze of white filling up around him. His sensors were going haywire. "We can't shoot, we can't hotwire the door, we can't even claw our way out in case we accidentally make a spark and incinerate ourselves. Ah'd punch something right now, but Ah'm afraid that might blow us up too."

"We will have to find an alternate escape route," Prowl said.

"Genius! Why didn't Ah think of that?" Jazz hissed. "What do ya propose, oh genius tactician?"

Prowl sent a squinty glare down to his partner, who now appeared more white than silver. "Less sarcasm would be nice."

"World peace would also be nice, but ya ain't gonna get it."

Prowl rolled his optics, turning in one slow circle to evaluate their worsening situation. He shook the fine coating of powder clinging to his armour. They needed an option which afforded them no possible sparks to ignite the magnesium, and preferably one which was low temperature for the same reason. It then occurred to Prowl that his own weapon would do nicely. Sometimes the simplest solution was not always the easiest to realize.

Jazz bristled as Prowl withdrew his blaster.

"Shootin' ain't gonna work," the saboteur sneered.

Prowl arched an optic ridge. "Shooting plasma won't." He patted the side cartridge on his weapon where highly effective get-out-of-jail-free pellets were stored. "Acid should do nicely, shouldn't it?"

"Acid?" It dawned on Jazz that Prowl's weapon suddenly looked a thousand times better than it ever had before. "Have Ah ever told ya Ah love a mech who packs for every occasion?"

"Love me later; we have to get out of here now," Prowl replied. Three acid pellets flew into the nearest pane of clear polymer. While acids in their most normal states were normally not very fast acting on dense materials, particularly metals, the acid that Prowl loaded into his pellets was a brand of manufactured acid meant specifically for fast-acting damage on metal, mineral, and polymer. In moments, a sizable hole had been eaten into the metal frame keeping the clear window pane in place; the polymer of the pane had turned to a clear, oozing sludge.

Jazz shoved the pane from its frame, careful not to let the acid come into contact with his hands. He squirrelled out with an impressive amount of agility, motioning for Prowl to follow.

An ominous cloud of white powder followed on their heels as if reaching to draw them back inside.

"Ya get the feeling this base is tryin' ta kill us?" Jazz said off-handedly.

"It might have come to my attention briefly," Prowl drawled. "We better flush our vents before we ignite ourselves by accident." He immediately followed his own advice, finding himself in luck that the ice in his joints had thawed, the liquid still running freely inside his frame. Magnesium, aside from being such a troublesome element, was also highly soluble, soaked up by the melt and subsequently dribbled from his vents with ease.

Two paces away, Jazz scooped up a handful of snow and rolled it into a ball, using it to clean away the remnants of the powder that still clung to him.

"Clever," Prowl observed absently.

"Don't give Shockwave any more credit than he deserves," Jazz spat. "Anyone could'a set up a mag-powder trap. It's such an old trap that it was old when Ah was new."

"I was referring to your snowball," Prowl replied lightly.

Jazz blinked, looking down at the handmade tool. "Oh. Well, this is an old trick too." Once he was done, he immediately scooped another snowball and walked over to Prowl, running the cold handful across vents and over armour.

"I can do this," Prowl offered, reaching for the snowball.

"Ah got it," Jazz assured, moving out of reach of the grey hand that reached for him.

With his neural circuits sensitized to the cold after so recently thawing, Prowl felt the snow acutely and shuddered from the touch. He then recalled his hallucination's advice and shuddered again, though this time it was not from the touch of cold. He did not think he wanted to consider too closely what Evasia had meant.

Jazz finished with his work and stepped away, weighing what was left of the snow in his right hand. "We should keep moving. There's still two buildings left ta snoop through. One of them has ta have Shockwave's labs in them."

Prowl surveyed the yard from where he stood, eyeing the building they had been on their way toward before the walkway tried to kill them, and then observing a distant building set away from the rest of the cluster of the small compound. A low, squat building possessing one door and no windows. The dark metal which armoured its outsides was obviously reinforced. The ominous aesthetic of the building was only emphasized by the bizarre pristine appearance of it. There were no scuff marks on the walls; no icicles hung from the overhang of the roof. No living being looked like it had set foot within the vicinity in a very long time, if ever.

Jazz's attention was likewise attracted to the singular building set aside from all the others. Even under the fizzing lights of the energy dome above them, it was the one structure that remained set in shadow.

"Ah'll give ya three guesses which building Ah think we should search first."

Prowl thinned his mouthplates into a straight line. "The building which categorically looks like the site of a horror vid where all the protagonists die horrible deaths in the end?"

"Seems like a good place to start, don't ya think?" Jazz paused for a second, and then swung an incredulous look in Prowl's direction. "You've watched horror vids before?"

"I have done many things you may not be aware of," Prowl replied with a ghost of a smirk. "You do not strike me as the sort who enjoys sitting still long enough to watch a vid."

Jazz laughed a low note. "Why would Ah watch a horror vid? Real life is scarier."

They approached with caution, expecting the worst. The light dusting of snow that had somehow managed to filter through the force field laid like a warning around the windowless entity. Not for the normal optic to tell, Jazz was able to see a pattern in the manner of footprints walking around the building. Not just that whoever had been on base before now avoided going within a certain distance of the building, but that they walked with caution around it. Strong footsteps suddenly took on a timid gait the closer they came. Feet angled away as if even pointing in that direction was dangerous.

Whatever was inside, the Decepticons knew they didn't want anything to do with it.

Jazz felt the prickling of bad energy across his armour.

"The building's wired for motion and energy signatures," he announced, canvasing the vicinity for any sign of the sensors. "Only Shockwave and one other must have been able to come in and out."

"One other?" Prowl wondered.

"Two sets of prints," Jazz said, pointing to the barely visible shadows ghosting across the ground. Someone had tried hard to hide them, the smaller bot walking within the set of the large bot, but the manner of his gait caused disturbances that gave him away.

"Apprentice, maybe?" Prowl offered.

"Or accomplice," Jazz intoned darkly. He rolled a large snowball from the cold, damp dusting across the ground. Larger than the balls he had used to clean his armour off. Once sure it had enough mass, he lobbed it into the empty zone in front of the building. Before it had time to land, it was shot down by three magnesium-burn lasers. "Ah'll take out the sensors, you take out the lasers."

"Consider it done." Prowl was already aiming to take out the first of the three lasers.

Jazz was gone from Prowl's side in a blink, searching out where the hubs for the grid were. He found them in the places where the ground was slightly warmer than the rest. The dusting of snow had melted just enough to be noticeable. Each had been rigged with a landmine so that if stepped upon, it would have blown the unfortunate bot apart. Jazz dealt with each easily enough, if not with a little less finesse than he normally did things. Grabbing heavy crates and throwing them on the sensors felt like thug-work, but it blew the mines up and took the sensors out with them.

He was about to throw his last crate, one which had a strange organic residue clinging to it, when he became aware of how very _odd_ a crate with organic residue on it was. Of all the compounds on Cybertron, naturally occurring or intentionally manufactured, organically-based material was the most rare. What were the chances of finding organic anything all the way out in the middle of nowhere on a base inhabited by a creature capable of unspeakable things?

Instead of throwing the crate, Jazz set it down and eyed it warily. His life experience included contact with organics, though he could not claim to remember much of it. What he did remember was that organic species could not survive on Cybertron very easily. The planet's distance from its sun made for a cold planet on the surface; massive amounts of industry and machinery had once kept Cybertron at a lukewarm stage, though still too cold for most organics. Lack of industry now made for an even colder planet. Cybertron's atmosphere was largely composed of hydrogen, carbon oxides, nitrides, and sulphides; most organic lifeforms required oxygen, which existed on Cybertron, but in low saturation. Not to mention the size of the planet lent toward a heavy gravitational pull. Cybertronians were adapted to withstanding their planet's gravity, but foreign bodies were usually crushed.

Morbid curiosity piqued, Jazz pried the edges of the crate loose. A thin veil of steam issued from the cracks. The smell that rose from it was alien and disturbing. The insides of Jazz's olfactory sensor twinged. Sensor readouts splayed across his screens, announcing the chemical makeup of the gases to be methane, ammonia, and hydrogen sulphides among other unidentifiable organic compounds foreign to Jazz's databanks. What he did know was that those gases together were indicative of organic decay. When he removed the lid completely, a waft of foetid air hit him in the faceplate. It made him feel dirty, though it didn't stop him from taking a closer look at the garbage that Shockwave did not deem important enough to take with him.

"What the frag...?"

Body parts.

It was a box full of organic body parts.

By the looks of things, the hundreds of bodies that filled the box were all in different states of decomposition. Putrefaction had produced a sloppy brown liquid from the heavily decayed corpses. An organic slush that swilled as the crate rocked, sloshing up and over the sides when Jazz shoved the box away. Chunks of rotting material floated freely on top of the mess, or else still clung by fibres to the stunning whiteness of organic endoskeletons. One round, sightless organic optic no bigger than a drop of water bobbed its way through the gore, following Jazz with a lonely, accusing stare. A moment later, it burst from the pressure of internal gases hitting the sharp blade of cold air rushing in.

Jazz wrinkled his olfactory sensors, and then decided he did not need a sense of smell as of that moment. He shut down that sensor to prevent anymore offensive stenches from getting caught up there. Cautiously, as if he expected other body parts to start randomly exploding, he levered to his knees and peered down into the crate for a second look. It was as disgusting as his first look. But now that he knew what to expect, he saw the creeping details that made his discovery all the more disturbing. The body parts were missing pieces; many dismembered sections had been skinned. Sections of exposed bone sawed away. The microscopic threads of nerves had been pulled out.

Steeling himself for the feeling of wet rot seeping through his finger joints, Jazz reached in and lifted out a tiny organic arm. It was so small that he had to pinch it between two fingertips to hold it. Decay was so advanced that it simply slid apart in his grip, slopping back into the corpse soup with a muted splash. The next part Jazz picked up was not as far gone. It was a thick torso from a species that was large enough to take up space in nearly his entire palm; Jazz regarded the portion of corpse with a measure of disgust. He felt no pity for the lifeless pieces, but he did accept that that he never wanted to find out what it was like to be torn in half.

Squinting at the scraps of flesh left on the torso, Jazz came upon disturbing evidence. Across the rotted, blistered skin was a multitude of black lines. They ran like circuitry over flesh, like a road map that cut off sharply where large swaths of skin had been cut away. They were deliberate designs with obvious Cybertronian aesthetic to them. It took a moment for Jazz to place where he had seen similar lines before. They were _graft_ lines.

Jazz dropped the torso back into the crate and shoved the lid back on.

"Prowl," he called out, hoping his partner was near enough to answer. "Prowl, ya gotta see this!"

"_Jazz-?"_ Prowl yelled, sounding startled at first and then abruptly cut off by the sharp sound of plasma fire.

Jazz took off in that direction without thinking, moving around the far side of the squat building where the ground lay in heavy shadow. Prowl was easy to spot, splayed on the ground as a dark, uneven lump. Jazz immediately scanned for a spark signature, and then cursed himself when he realized both he and Prowl had yet to unmask their spark resonances. Prowl's frame was still warm as it was turned over. Jazz laid his hand to the centre of the tactician's chassis and felt the steady pulse of a spark beneath the metal.

One weary optic cracked open. "I did not just go through the pit to end up shot dead in here," the tactician grouched, trying to sit up.

"Mah thoughts exactly," Jazz added, noting the oozing wound in Prowl's left shoulder. The metal was caved inward, meaning he had been shot from the front. Luckily, the shoulder was not a vital part of Prowl's anatomy; no weaponry in that area, no redundant processor units. Just the basic mechanics to make an arm work.

"Did ya trip one of the lasers by accident?" Jazz enquired, watching the flow of energon taper off.

"No," Prowl grunted. "I think a drone shot me." He nodded to the darkened corner of the building where night's touch had settled the deepest. "I thought it was you coming around the corner over there. I could see light from a visor- it looked white to me. It must have been a red visor and I just couldn't pick up the colour. It was not until you called out that I realized whoever was walking toward me was not you. That's when the drone shot me and ran off."

Jazz growled softly, shuffling over to inspect the prints left behind. The manner of the gait set off warning bells in his head.

"I should have realized sooner that the drone wasn't you," Prowl sighed.

"It was dark. Ya can't see the colour red. You're just lucky ya didn't get shot in the head." Jazz shuffled back to inspect the wound again. "It took out most of your interface panel."

Prowl craned his neck with some trouble to look down at the mostly shot-off section of his frame. "You must see that as a terrible loss."

"There's more than one way ta interface with a bot," Jazz laughed, winking. He took out his blaster and charged it so that the tip glowed with yet-to-be-discharged plasma. "How about some quick field repairs before we go anywhere?"

"I already shut down neural wires in the area for you to work."

Jazz unhooked a section of Prowl's shoulder armour from the opposite shoulder and took cut out a decent piece of the thin plating beneath. He bent it with his hands and banged it against his knee until it was in the right shape to act as a patch over the wound. Welding it on would reduce mobility in Prowl's left arm, but it also reduced the risk of something getting into his frame that didn't belong there. After seeing what Shockwave was keeping in crates, Jazz knew there were things around the base that no one wanted in their frame.

"You never told me why you called for me," Prowl said as he rolled his shoulder, testing the cooling welds.

"Found something," Jazz said, rocking back on his heels. "A crate that Shockwave must have left behind. It was filled with organic remains."

Prowl stared at him quizzically. "Organic remains?"

"Frames...er, bodies," Jazz amended. "Bits and pieces of alien bodies. They were so mangled that Ah couldn't see much from them, but some of them looked like species from neighbouring planets. Looks like Shockwave's been working off-planet. There had to be a couple hundred chunks of organics to fill a crate that size."

Prowl's gaze turned shrewd, mind racing. "That is a disturbing development."

"Ya don't know the half of it," Jazz lamented. "Ah touched the stuff. Ah still feel it in mah finger joints." It was a good thing he still had his olfactory sensor shut down or he was have been able to smell the corpse juices still reeking on him.

"What business would Shockwave have with organic aliens?" Prowl questioned, ignoring Jazz's off-handed complaints. "Their technology is not as advanced as ours, and their bodies are far from compatible with this planet..."

"What do ya wanna bet the answer's in there?" Jazz wagered, jerking his chin to the looming presence of the dark building next to them.

"I believe our chances of finding answers inside are very high," Prowl estimated quietly.

Jazz threaded his arm underneath Prowl's good shoulder and hauled the other mech to his feet. They adjusted themselves until their positions were comfortable. This time, Jazz did not need to ask Prowl to lean his weight against him. It was done without a thought. They made their way together to the single unguarded door at the front of the building.

"Ya know," Jazz murmured, arm cinching tighter around Prowl than what was necessary. "Ah have a feeling that whatever we're gonna find in there ain't gonna be pretty."

In fact, what they were going to find was going to be a whole lot worse than either of them could ever imagine.


	37. Chapter 37

_*Kicks door open* _Honey, I'm Hooooommmmeeeeeeeee! _*Canned Applause* _

Yes, that's right. After a couple of months of intense studies, writing a thesis, getting an A, graduating from university with honours and distinction, having a good long month worth of vegging out, reading books, and doing nothing, I am back in the fanfiction business! _Finally_! It feels so good to be back! After so long a break from this site and this story in particular, it's a good feeling to be getting back to what matters - giant alien robots and sexual tension! I meant to finish up this arc of the story with this chapter, but I was channelling my inner H. P. Lovecraft with all the slime-horror...and the chapter would have ended up 40 or 50 pages long if I kept going. I doubt anyone would have appreciated that. So, enjoy the couple of twists in this chapter! Don't be afraid to speculate in your reviews - I love a good hypothesis, and I love replying to those reviews the most because it's fun to drop crazy hints! I'm eager to hear if I managed to creep anyone out!

_Psi ex Machina_ – So, a note about this minor plot point because I wanted to say something about it...mostly because I thought I was really clever coming up with it. A lot of you may be familiar with the Latin phrase "deus ex machina" meaning "god from the machine" - basically meaning a plot device where an unlikely source comes along at the end of a play and fixes _everything_. Go look it up on Wikipedia for more info, my time is short here. Anyways, I changed that a little for my own nefarious purposes. For anyone familiar with the Greek alphabet, you would recognize the letter "psi" (Ψ), which holds many meanings. In particular, psi is often the symbol for the inner workings of the mind as well as research into the paranormal world (_psy_chology, _psy_chiatry, _parapsy_chology). With a little Greek-Latin hybridization (and by that, I mean bastardization), I meant for _psi ex machina_ to mean "mind from the machine," among other more sinister meanings.

Also, readers of other _War Eternal_ stories besides this one…well, you may want to keep your eyes peeled for No One in particular – if you know what I mean. =P

Thank you to all of you, my wonderful and patient readers: **TransformersLover95, shantastic, StarscreamII, ReveilleWolfie, renegadewriter8, A Lurker, cmdrtekk, Psyche102, VyxenSkye, CNightJoy, Kai-Chan94, BoredTech, Daklog73, Poiseninja, Prowls-little-angel, DemonSurfer, Midnight Marquis, Birgitte LP, Darkeyes17, Jazz935, kathy3meme, Camfield, Pruhana, Wanderling, Optimus Bob, Luinrina, Peacewish, Cybela, Wisecrack Idiots, femme4jack, Jessie07, quasarsmom, Kidara, Imbrium, Sideslip, Faecat, Fianna9, Xenophobic Doll, Astsadi, uniasus, smoking caramels, The Dancing Bard, Miniquie, Qwertzu, SweetIndigo, VaRa129, Farky-farky and the Monkey Bunch, Gamemice, IBrokeThe4thWall, JenEvan, evilbunny777, SafaiaFureia, Chloo, Lackia,** and **Lecidre**! Whew, there is a bunch of you!

Thank you so much for helping to make _Where You and I Collide_ what it is today. I am grateful to each and every single one of you. I sincerely hope that you're all still out there, even after such a long wait. I promise, if you come back, read, and review, I'll be sure to glom all over you and, you know, write the next chapter quickly. =P

**Chapter 37**

If Prowl had considered their situation tense before, it was nothing compared to the ominous dread hanging nearly palpable in the atmosphere now.

He glanced down at his left hand, hanging slightly off-kilter due to the wound he suffered in his shoulder and the patch Jazz had welded over it. The state of his left arm was a rather good reminder of what a dangerous situation he and his partner were teetering on the edge of. They were in the spark of one of Shockwave's lairs. It was lethally obvious now that everything was not as it seemed. Even that which seemed innocuous, like a hallucination, or a seemingly white visor, or even a simple crate, revealed themselves to be unexpectedly foreboding in their own ways.

Even a moment's lapse in attention or judgement within Shockwave's domain could result in unfortunate consequences.

Prowl considered himself fortunate that the consequence of his brief lapse in attention only resulted in an injury to his shoulder. His encounter with the drone could have easily resulted in a fatal shot to the head. Were it not for Jazz's shout alerting him, Prowl might not have been quick enough to dodge. The throbbing he felt exerted on his pressure sensor grid from the concave section of his armour reminded him that vigilance was the key to survival when combating the likes of Shockwave.

Mistakes, even one like a temporary lapse in judgement, were not an option when the mission was this dire.

Prowl had made too many mistakes so far.

From the very beginning of this mission, he had been making mistake after mistake. As if he were fledgling officer for Security Response again, but even then he did not make as many mistakes as he did now. Arrogance and ignorance were the instruments of his downfall this time. An overestimation of his own considerable abilities and too much emphasis on Jazz's skills blinded Prowl to the distinct possibility that there were warriors at Megatron's disposal even more dangerous and less publicly known than Jazz. An embarrassing amount of naivety concerning Shockwave's powers, abilities, and mastery over macabre sciences only further stunted Prowl's foresight concerning their current situation.

The long joors he had spent during their journey preparing for this encounter, overtaxing his battle computer in order to compete with the massive number of variables they were dealing with... none of it had been enough.

Not enough by far, and it was his fault not to have seen it coming-

"Stop that," Jazz snapped curtly, causing Prowl to jerk out of his brief downward spiral.

A beat of silence followed.

A low rev vibrated from within the saboteur's chassis. "Ah might not be looking at ya, but Ah know what you're doing."

Prowl's arched an optic ridge, though he did not turn his attention away from their surroundings. One lapse in judgement was enough for one orn. "What am I doing?"

Jazz made a noise of annoyance, as if that was answer enough.

Prowl stood his ground under the brunt of his partner's irritation, which manifested in a flare in his electric field and the apparent frown pulling down on his mouthplates. A flaring field was of little concern and Prowl did not deign it much attention, and a scowl from Jazz was less than that. His cool gaze remained on the saboteur in expectation of an answer, though it was unfair of him to do so while Jazz was occupied with getting them through the security locks Shockwave had placed on his labs. Nevertheless, his partner deigned to answer after relenting under scrutiny.

"You're doin' that stupid thing where everything is your fault," the saboteur groused while flexing his clenched fists against the wall that held his weight. There was an edge to his voice, more than just irritation roughening his normally smooth accented voice. He shifted his feet, beginning to get stiff from the tension and his awkward stance hunched over the control panel.

It was the tactician's turn to feel a moment of irritation. "I was not aware that one of your many talents was mind reading."

"Don't try ta be cute – Ah'm not in the mood right now," Jazz grunted, sending a quick glance to his left to reveal the grim set to his faceplate. The effort it was costing him to mentally do battle with whatever Shockwave had set into his locks was effectively taking its toll. "Ah got a splitting headache from this and Ah gotta contend with ya berating yourself. Ah can feel ya right up against mah armour, Prowler. It's too distracting for meh right now."

A spike of regret for his momentary petulance lanced through Prowl. "My apologies."

"Whatever," Jazz sighed, returning his full attentions back to the task at hand. "Just...think happy thoughts or some slag like that. And make sure no one sneaks up on meh while Ah got my back turned. If Ah get shot, Ah am _not_ gonna be happy."

"I do not imagine you would be," Prowl replied, his hands tightening briefly over his charged weapon. "I will not be distracted again. No one will be able to approach."

A tight smirk ghosted over the saboteur's mouthplates. "So long as they don't have the colour red on them?"

"I believe you are enough to inspire me to see the colour red," Prowl replied evenly, leaving it up to his companion to decide whether it was an honest statement that he would endeavour to work beyond his current disability...or if he was simply hinting at Jazz's incredible ability to raise a temper in the normally implacable tactician.

Either way, Jazz spared a low chuckle.

Prowl was careful to angle himself in such a way that he could watch the quiet base around him and still keep Jazz in the periphery of his view. In spite of the eerie stillness which reigned over the yard and the assorted buildings which dotted it, Prowl redoubled his vigilance. He was especially keen to keep Jazz in top form, since the saboteur was unquestionably the key to solving the elusive question that was Shockwave's existence.

A long stretch of silence followed while the saboteur worked. He was adept at hiding his deepening discomfort, though the signs were becoming more pronounced the longer he managed the locking sequence.

More mindful of the unintentional affects he imposed on his partner while Jazz was in his...hyper-sensitized state, for lack of a better description of it, Prowl took a deep drag of air and let it rush out through his vents in as calm a manner as he could manage. His task now was to consciously endeavour to grasp a firm hold of his emotional state and refuse to let it affect him any further.

He could not decide if there was irony in this task, considering the terrible emotional outburst he had suffered the last time he and Jazz had attempted a lesson in control. It would have been so much easier to simply turn off his emotional centre, leaving his thoughts clear of guilt and his faculties unmolested by incidentals like insecurity. But Prowl was not the type of bot to give up so easily on something he set his mind to. He would learn to be his own master, or die trying. He preferred the former option. It was, unfortunately, a deeply ingrained habit of his to critique himself to the point of self-abuse. Since he and Jazz had only shared one exclusive attempt at emotional control, one lesson which ended disastrously between them, Prowl was forced to instead rely on other tricks of the mind that he was more familiar with. One such trick was to engage his battle computer in some activity that would partially divert his attention from himself.

Use of his battle computer was among one of his oldest and most effective tools. Once assigned a particular task, his mind would be divided into two processes capable of working simultaneously on two separate agendas. A useful trick when a bot happened to be as busy as a Head Tactical Adviser tended to be. The module set into his head was segregated from the larger processes of his mind, though capable of working in tandem when required. Generally speaking, it allowed Prowl and others of similar programming to himself to engage in numerous tactical calculations even while distracted in the heat of battle. Quite literally, a battle computer – or a "detached tactical analysis module" as they were known before the war – could operate as a secondary thought-process in a bot's mind, working parallel to the actual processor. Prowl's many successes, both in battle and in administration tasks, were evidence of the many advantages to possessing a battle computer.

Admittedly, this detached part of the tactician's psyche was also the only side of himself which remained free of emotion no matter if his emotional centre was turned on or off. It was the reason his processor immediately defaulted to his battle computer when his emotional centre was turned off.

Prowl settled his battle computer to the task of puzzling over the contents of Shockwave's crates. The disturbing revelation of what Jazz had discovered had yet to leave the frayed edges of Prowl's mind, but in the short while between being shot and waiting for Jazz to hack the lock on the door, the tactician had not spared the grotesque nature of Shockwave's castoffs much thought. There was cold comfort in how he felt his battle computer taking in all available data and beginning to churn it over and over. Prowl felt the fission of consciousness between his two tasks, neither one distracting from the other due to the unique programming of his mind.

This new delegation was clearly no distraction to Jazz's senses. If anything, it seemed an odd comfort for the taxed saboteur to be reminded of something so familiar and simple as Prowl's reliance on his battle computer. Jazz shifted his weight and relaxed a fraction, remaining silent.

While one side of Prowl's mind worked on his current task of ensuring that no one was able to shoot Jazz in the back, another side of him worked on the gruesome understanding what possible purpose a Cybertronian had for organics. Prowl was a relatively sheltered bot compared to Jazz, due to his comparative youth and lack of travel beyond the planet. His contact with organic species was severely limited to a few sources. His knowledge was basic, and his opinions reflected the general opinions of Cybertron: organics were weak, primitive, and technologically stagnant compared to the many splendours a planet like Cybertron offered. There was no overt purpose to associating with them, aside from anthropological curiosity.

Prowl was highly doubtful of Shockwave's anthropological interest in organic aliens.

What scientific reason could there be for gathering so many organics? Prowl recalled the contents of the crate that Jazz had briefly shown him before attending to the conundrum of the door. He recognized eight distinct species from neighbouring galaxies, none of which were in contact with Cybertron anymore due to the war. There seemed no specific pattern to Shockwave's abductions: he took the old, the young, biological males, females, and various other sexual manifestations. There were avian, reptilian, and mammalian samples amongst the rotting corpses. As far as Prowl knew, there were few commonalities between the species. He did not know if the planets they belonged to were even allied with each other.

And then there was the question of the graft lines. What purpose did they serve? What Shockwave merely investigating the primitive creatures for his own amusement, doing so in the most efficient manner he knew how? Or was there a more sinister design meant behind the fine black lines etched upon the rotten skins left to disintegrate in the create?

There was a brief stutter in information in Prowl's mind, and then a rapid rewind as his subconscious hooked on a detail of data. It was brought to the fore to be examined immediately.

Of all the thousands of variables between Cybertronians and other lesser beings, there was only one evolutionary advantage afforded to organics that Cybertronians were forever exempt from: the ability to procreate amongst themselves. Some organics did so through sexually dimorphic means, combining two sources of deoxyribonucleic acid to formulate a new combination of genetic material which would constitute the next generation. Other organics procreated through asexual means, such as sporing or fission. Cybertronians did not fall under either category. They produced new forms of life through the Allspark. It was their sole form of reproduction, and it left them as a highly vulnerable species when that one outlet was threatened.

The use of the Allspark as a form of highly regulated reproduction was extremely efficient for a species such as theirs. No spark came to life unwanted or without purpose. The Council Pantheon monitored all applications for new sparks, balancing demand against current populations and death rates. Considering that Cybertronians were a long-lived species who were extraordinarily hard to kill, it was an immensely important job to regulate population or else risk problems of overpopulation and poverty that plague organic worlds.

The opposite was now a distinct problem. With the Allspark sequestered for its own protection, there was no means for the Cybertronian species to replenish itself. War diminished their numbers with each passing orn. Factions were desperate for new warriors to replenish their ranks.

Finding an alternative means of creating new warriors would be advantageous to either faction...

"Ah'm in," Jazz suddenly announced alongside the obvious releasing of the locking mechanism of the door.

With that said, Prowl quickly ended his session with his battle computer, tucking the information away to cycle through at a subconscious level. He stepped away from the wall to briefly assess his partner. Jazz was obviously bearing the brunt of exhaustion from the mental exercise. A small tremor, barely noticeable, travelled through him. The building itself was unchanged, despite the monumental accomplishment of hacking through the lock. Prowl's brief assessment confirmed that the low, squat building was still heavily armoured, cast in a shadow that seemed wholly unnatural, and flirted with an illogical sense of foreboding which the tactician could not narrow down in source.

After the brief assessment, Prowl was quick to turn his attentions back to the rest of the empty yard in case they were ambushed during his lapse. It was entirely possible that releasing the lock triggered yet another trap set by Shockwave. Perhaps all the drones left on the base would be set upon them like a plague. Or the risk of magnesium powder shooting out of hidden vents followed by a single spark of electricity would effectively incinerate all intruders. At this point, Prowl was not even willing to cast off the chance that a giant hole in the ground would open up, dropping Jazz and himself into some sort of bottomless pit.

Jazz seemed to be waiting on the same thing, holding himself frozen over the open access panel. A breem passed, followed by the long exhalation of the saboteur. Clearly, if something was going to happen, it would have happened by now.

"That was anti-climatic," the silver bot commented, straightening to his full height.

"There's still time for something unfortunate to happen," Prowl reasoned, still watching the open yard for any sign of an approaching threat.

"Ah don't think so – not here, at least," Jazz replied, retracting his cable into its holding unit in the small panel on his chest. He swayed for a moment, a wave of dizziness snatching at his sense of balance. Prowl saw the disorientation and offered an arm to help, which Jazz surprisingly accepted without complaint.

"Are you alright?" Prowl asked out of polite habit.

"Took more outta meh than Ah thought," Jazz breathed, air shuddering out his vents. He peered up at his partner, who watched him with enquiring pale blue optics. "We're safe here, though. Aside from the traps he set up around this place, there's nothing inside the sanctum."

Doubt flickered behind the tactician's optics. "How can you be sure?"

"Same way Ah'm sure about everything else. Shockwave never thought we would get this far," the saboteur explained. "Ah'm willing ta bet that he thought we'd never find his base in the first place, and even if we did find it, he figured his traps would kill us first."

Prowl inclined his head, the ghost of a mild smirk appearing across his mouthplates. "It is nice to have someone underestimate us for a change instead of it being the other way around."

"It's just too bad that after this, Shockwave is gonna know he can't underestimate us anymore. It'll be that much harder ta find him, and that much harder ta kill him. He's not the kind of bot ta make a mistake twice."

Despite the grimness of the statement, there was one particular aspect of it that caught Prowl's attention. "Us?"

"What?"

"Us – you said Shockwave can not underestimate _us,_" Prowl reiterated. "That is the first time you have ever acknowledged that Shockwave is not your lone mission."

Jazz appeared momentarily perturbed, having not even realized his own verbal slip.

Deciding that this was not the time to get the saboteur's defences up about issues of "I" "me" "we" and "us", especially considering that Prowl was equally disinclined to consider changing aspects of their relationship from semi-professional to something else. Under normal circumstances, it was daunting enough to consider. Amidst danger and risk of death? There was no place for it. He quickly offered an out in the form of a segue:

"Of course," he intoned, "you are currently disorientated from your hacking efforts and I imagine your processor is out of sorts. Verbal gaffes are bound to happen, even to one such as yourself."

"Yeah, exactly," Jazz readily agreed, happy to latch onto the ready-made excuse Prowl offered.

"Contrary to what many believe, you are not invincible," Prowl continued lightly.

"Ah'm close, though," Jazz shrugged with equal reasonability.

Prowl arched an optic ridge. "That is the longest I have ever seen you struggle with a lock before. Perhaps you are losing your touch?"

Jazz huffed, turning his olfactory sensor up as if mildly insulted. "It wasn't the hardest lock Ah've ever dealt with. Just took meh a while ta find a way in – plus, you were distractin' meh, remember?"

One dark optic ridge arched up to join its mate high on Prowl's brow. "Ah, right. Wasn't I thinking too loudly for you?"

"Somethin' like that," Jazz replied, the grip of his hand on Prowl's arm tightening for a second. "Ah might not read minds like some bots can," - to which he was obviously referring to one of Soundwave's more insidious abilities - "but Ah was taught other ways that are just as good as mind reading. One look and Ah know all Ah ever need ta know about a bot."

"Except for me," Prowl reminded, though at the mentioning of "looking" he did cast his gaze and sensors out to confirm that no trouble was on its way. Jazz proved himself correct that Shockwave had not anticipated their success; nothing worth deeming 'dangerous' was approaching. With that matter settled in an astrosecond, Prowl pressed on, "I do recall you attempting several very painful looks at me and you still did not see me."

Jazz's visor flashed, and a rakish grin broke out across his handsome faceplate. It seemed a very odd place to laugh when they were about to face down untold danger and horror inside the lab of a psychotic scientist, and yet a very handsome laugh escaped the saboteur.

"Ah didn't see ya properly until ya managed ta slow meh down enough for everything ta stop spinning," said the silver mech. "Ah'm _still_ looking and Ah find new things ta see every time."

Prowl canted his head, not sure if he was being paid a compliment or not.

Jazz did not expound on his meanings, but instead carried on with seeming nonchalance: "Just because Ah don't know everything there is ta know about ya doesn't mean Ah don't know enough about ya ta _know_ when you're doing something. Ah don't gotta be lookin' at ya ta feel when you're being hard on yourself. It's just...something Ah feel. The same way Ah feel things around here but can't explain them ta ya."

"You are an exceedingly odd Cybertronian."

"Right back at ya."

There came a natural pause as the pair recognized that their levity could last no longer. They stood on the threshold of something possibly horrific, and beyond that door was a place not meant for humour. The foreboding of their looming task rose up like a physical weight in the air, heavier and more oppressive than ever before.

Jazz disentangled himself from the arm that offered him support. He wavered only slightly on his feet before he cycled air and stood straight. The disorienting headache his hack job had given him was pushed aside, still a nuisance but no longer allowed to impede him. All traces of humour melted from his features to be replaced with that of a calculating saboteur, one whose abilities were as infamous as they were dangerous.

One sharp claw traced its way down the seam of the door, coming away with a cold layer of slime that only caused the silver mech to scowl.

"While Ah was working on the lock, ya turned on your battle computer."

"I did happen to assign it a specific process," Prowl replied, equally sinking into a battle-ready stance. Though his control over his emotions was not as finely tuned as Jazz's, Prowl was still a formidable warrior – he simply did not remind himself of that fact very often. Before Jazz had ever come into his life, Prowl had managed to become Head Tactical Adviser of his division and create a formidable reputation for himself. He was still that same bot.

Jazz did not need to wonder about what specific process his partner had assigned to his battle computer There was no question that Prowl had been trying to puzzle out the same enigma that dogged Jazz: _what the pit was Shockwave doing with organic aliens?_

"What did ya come up with?"

Prowl cast his partner with a shrewd look that said more than words could express. Needlessly, he reported, "You do not want to know."

"Figured," Jazz sighed. "Enough puttin' this off. Ya ready?"

"As I will ever be."

"That's gonna have ta be enough."

At Jazz's command, the door hissed open. Foetid air wafted out, warm and rank with the heavy stench of rot. Prepared for the assault of rancid stench, Prowl and Jazz immediately turned off their olfactory sensors. Alleviated of one abused sense, that singular countermeasure did little to protect their other highly acute senses. Most affected was their tactile sense. Humid air steamed out of the gaping black doorway and settled across their surfaces of their armour, slick and filthy, heavy with organic particulates. Cold air condensed the steam into a white cloud, and then freezing into pale brownish-yellow droplets across whatever surface they touched. Steamy tendrils passed beneath slates in their armour, sneaking into their warmed innards, soaking into their inner workings.

Prowl steeled himself against the evanescent intrusion, tamping down on his shudder of revulsion.

"The atmosphere is much thicker than Cybertron's," he commented evenly, running an analysis of the content of the air. Concentrations of oxygen and carbon dioxide were notably high, both functions in organic respiratory systems. Other elements and compounds included those indicative of heavy decay.

"Atmosphere an organic could breathe. Ah'm pretty sure there are gravity adjusters in the building ta compensate for Cybertron's heavy gravity," Jazz added, taking his first cautious step into the building. The only illumination came from outside, the lighted force field doming the entire compound. Inside the immediate doorway was a small chamber, which Jazz realized was a pressurization chamber. He motioned Prowl to join him, allowing the door to slide closed at their backs. A single shallow light flickered on above their heads.

"A pressure chamber?" Prowl wondered, peering around himself as he felt machinery powering up, the air pressure slowly shifting from low to high density. "Evidence seems to suggest that Shockwave went to great length to accommodate organic species."

"Easier ta experiment on live prey than on dead ones," Jazz rejoined darkly, and there was a hint of experience lingering in those ominous words.

A moment later, the process finished. Machines powered down while an automated message chimed over a small speaker, announcing the set of the gravity and the new air pressure. Prowl and Jazz readily took their cues from the offered numbers, resetting their internal pressurization to best suit this new environment. A door directly across from the one they had entered slid open, admitting more humid air to press in on them, slick tendrils of slimy condensation clinging to their metal exteriors and interiors.

A long, empty corridor beckoned them.

Much like the previous buildings in the compound, there was eerie order to the path which laid before them. The lights overhead were stark white, casting a glaring shine over polished metal and glass surfaces. Shadows were thrown into sharp relief, so sharply delineated that they appeared carved from the blade of a scalpel. There was clinical precision in the design of the corridor, its tall and narrow passageway both accommodating to trespassers and ultimately foreboding. There was no detail out of place, no measurement off by a single fraction. Not even the cut of a diamond could possibly be sharper or straighter than the nature of the narrow entryway which stretched out before them.

This was deeply in contrast to the rest of the details Prowl catalogued with optics.

Evidence of Shockwave's dealings manifested along the seams of the corridor, where the walls met the ceilings and the floor; in these narrow lines, organic debris from the air gathered and festered, clinging to the metal as it rotted and spread like a disease. Brown and black, veins reaching outward as the mould and bacteria spread in search of more decay to consume. Rivulets of murky fluid leaked from these deposits of putrefaction, running down the walls and across the floor. In every case of a crack or chip, fluid gathered and inspired decay unique to metal: rust. Perverting the integrity of the smooth surface, destroying its shine and health; patches of rust could be found erupting like the spread of an infection.

The most unnerving detail of all was the silence.

Pure silence. An utter absence of sound which, in itself, seemed deafening. It surpassed the eerie stillness of the compound outside, burgeoning on a deathlike presence that crept over armour and chilled the spark.

Jazz took his first step, tensing as he listened to the metallic echo of his foot that seemed to carry on forever.

"Keep your guard up," the saboteur needlessly murmured.

Prowl, likewise, needlessly nodded.

As they travelled onward which wary intent, hating how each step they took echoed too loud and too long. The deeper the travelled into the inner sanctum of a monster, the more the walls seemed to press in on each side. Prowl had no issues with confined spaces, but he knew of Jazz's particular weakness to being closed in. It couldn't be classified as a fear, per se, but more of a psychological discomfort ingrained in the bot after a lifetime of running wild and insane on pure freedom with no boundaries to hem him in. He watched his partner from the corner of his optic and noted with grim confirmation how the silver mech reached out and trailed the tips of his claws along the wall, coating himself with liquid decay in the process. Disgusting as it was to voluntarily submit himself to it, it was Jazz's way of assuring himself the walls were staying exactly where they were.

To their great relief, and mounting tension, nothing happened during their journey to the end of the corridor. No trap doors to swing open beneath their feet, no magnesium powder to spew from the vents. There was not even an oil spill for them to slip on. Jazz's observation that Shockwave had not calculated their success in infiltrating his labs appeared to be holding true. Nevertheless, the longer nothing happened to them, the greater the sense that something terrible was looming just around the corner was impressed upon their psyches. At the end of the corridor, the pair were presented with a fascinating choice in directions. True to organizational form, Shockwave had posted a placard on the wall to list the options that laid in each direction. To the right was Administration, Maintenance, and Record Keeping. To the left was Examination, Experimentation, and Holdings.

Jazz tapped his long finger over the latter option. "This sounds promising."

"That depends on what you consider promising," Prowl replied reservedly, once more casting wary optics around himself. He sent out every scan he possessed in order to render some idea of what laid ahead of them. The readouts he received moments later were a jumbled mess of unreadable signals. Largely inorganic signals, the run of energy through conduits in the walls, the ring of empty space in corridors like the one they stood in. But then organic readouts smeared across his sensors, touching every surface and throwing off all his calibration – no doubt in thanks to the heavy concentrations of debris that clung to the air and surfaces. Deeper still was evidence of organic and inorganic life signs, perverted somehow as if Prowl's scanners could not distinguish one from the other.

Jazz was already several steps ahead of him before Prowl realized he was being left behind.

This new hallway was as bright as the first, possessed of the same contrasting elements between clinical exactness and accumulated filth. The walls were thankfully spaced further apart, with several tracks set into the floor and ceiling meant for automated gurneys and tables. One such gurney was parked halfway down the hall, large enough to accommodate a Cybertronian of minibot size. Though it appeared innocuous in its immobile state, Prowl and Jazz did not miss the way light played off the reflective metal surface to reveal telltale signs of blue staining.

As they passed the singular table, Jazz ran his hand over it. He took note of the small details; scuff marks along the centre of the table denoting the struggles of the victim where the armour of their backs dug into the table; deep stress marks where restraints were anchored into the sides of the table, marking that multiple bots had been struggling _very _hard. Despite clear efforts to clean the metal of its staining, the repeated spills of energon over a long period had permanently warped the metal. Beneath his hand, he could almost feel the lingering touch of spark energy in the last moments of life before it was dashed out.

Jazz was not in the habit of believing in ghosts, though he felt as if he would hear them screaming if he only just shuttered his optics and listened.

Prowl turned his attention away from the gurney, peering into the room which came into sight on his right. A sharply cut door was inset into the flat face of the corridor's wall, and on either side were clear crystal panels which allowed for the observation of the interior of the room. Light spilled into the darkened recess, casting the figures of medical equipment into ominous shapes. More gurneys lined the floor, paired with tables that still boasted of their tools. Large surgical lights hung from the ceiling, among other shapes that could not be distinguished from where the tactician stood.

To get a better look, Prowl stepped closer. He noted the floor was pockmarked with drainage covers, each one grimy with the presence of congealed energon and a crusty brown substance that Prowl could only assume was dried haemoglobin from organic iron-based blood. He squinted against his own reflection on the crystal pane, leaning in to discern the curious shapes he could make out hanging from the ceiling. His initial perusal found them odd and without distinctive shape; some were small and others were large. A small breeze in the examination room from the air exchange vents caused the objects to flap, proving they were flexible and lightweight. Colours were obscured in half-light to muted tans and browns. Black dotted lines followed across the uneven surfaces, following a pattern which seemed logical thought not yet comprehensible.

"Skins," Jazz observed, peering around Prowl's shoulder with a grim expression. "Those are skins with graft lines. A lot of skins, by the looks of things. Shockwave was doing a lot of his version of examining."

Prowl jerked away from the window, feeling a cold chill run through him. He turned and jerked his optics briefly to the second observation room that Jazz had no doubt already peeked into.

"What is in the other room?" he enquired.

The corner of the saboteur's mouthplates kicked up in a humourless smirk. "Everything else." He held up his hand, revealing a nondescript data pad. "Found this, too."

"Does it contain anything?"

"Numbers," Jazz sighed. "Just a bunch of numbers. Ah can't make anything of it."

"Hold on to it. We'll be able to analyze it better once we're out of here."

Jazz gave a curt nod, slipping the data pad into subspace. Their echoing footsteps synchronized as they passed through the rest of the corridor, their optics sharp for any danger. Darkened windows continued to line up along their sides, revealing tantalizing hints of the horrors that went on within. A spiral fracture in the glass where a patient got loose and attempted to escape. Claw marks down the gurneys as someone clenched their fists against the pain and terror. Cybertronian parts laid out in the examination rooms, neatly labelled and prepped, right next to the grotesque organic approximations of the same innards, preserved and floating in jars. Each sight offered the jarring contrast between orderly neatness and black grime of unforgivable endeavours.

All of it served as unparalleled insight into the clinical practices of a mad mech.

They passed through a double door entryway into the Experimentation section. Had their olfactory sensors been turned on, they would have scented the acrid stench of fear in the air, coupled with the increasing stench of putrefaction and nameless other things. The deeper into Shockwave's labs that they travelled, the more the air became thicker, deeply permeated with corruption. A layer of malaise that grew thicker with every step, settling upon every surface, warping everything it touched. Stark lights above were just as bright and intrusive – save for one that was dying, flickering with a strobe effect that was disorientating and disturbing. The floors were dirtier, obscured by a thin layer of organic debris and flakes of rust that had accumulated over time. Cutting through the mess were the sharp tracks for the automated gurneys and the sharply delineated tracks of fast-paced bots.

Jazz crouched over the prints on the floor, his fingers tracing the outline with purposeful attention. "Shockwave," he announced, tracing the largest set. Then he traced a second set of prints, smaller than the first, familiar in a perturbing manner. The gait was carefully measured, an extremely efficient and brusque pace by the looks of things. Almost drone-like, but not quite. Jazz narrowed his optics on the set of prints, scowling at them.

"This is the one that shot ya," the silver bot announced darkly.

Upon that remark, Prowl leaned over a silver shoulder to assess the prints. The size marked the owner as a general-sized mech, or else a minibot with large feet. He recognized the shape of the print and the manner of the walk. "The drone."

Jazz nodded slowly, pursing his mouthplates. He studied the prints, and then admitted, "It wasn't a drone."

"No?"

"Almost looks like a drone, but there's..." he trailed off, shooting Prowl a half-shrug and a pursed look. "There's too much inflection in the gait."

One dark optic ridge arched, accepting the explanation. "Shockwave's possible apprentice or accomplice, then?"

"Probably. Ah can't tell if he's walking like this out of habit or doin' it on purpose ta try an' throw us off his trail," Jazz replied shrewdly.

"Outside, he likely adjusted his gait if he meant to throw us off. He would be less guarded in here. These prints are likely an example of his habitual walking pattern, which is, as we can see, drone-like."

"Yeah, Ah buy that." It was obvious in the guarded manner of Jazz's expression that he was holding something back, as he seemed to have been holding back when he first encountered the prints outside. A mild moment of disturbance crossed his features, but was gone an astrosecond later. "He must have hidden his spark signature when he snuck up on ya, or else ya would have sensed him coming long before he got too close."

Prowl did not press about what held Jazz's attention about the prints. He readily nodded and agreed to his partner's assessment. "This is true. It is why I assumed it was a drone – there was no spark signature. Instead, we find ourselves dealing with a very clever bot of Shockwave's company. An exceedingly clever one, it seems."

"Makes ya wonder why this bot got left behind."

A cold chill passed over Prowl's armour as his mind raced to calculate the thousands of viable reasons why Shockwave might select one of his entourage to stay behind. The resulting answers were not encouraging.

"Perhaps," said the tactician, measuring his words very carefully. "Perhaps Shockwave _did_ anticipate us coming this far and he left someone here to deal with us in that eventuality."

Jazz rocked to his feet, straightening to his full height without a word. His expression shifted as he considered the possibility.

"Ah-," he words tapered off as his attention immediately darted down the hall.

Prowl tensed, fingers tightening around the blaster he still held clenched at the ready. "What is it?"

"Movement," Jazz murmured, assuming a low pose as he slid soundlessly down the hall on the wheels of his alt mode that comprised the partial structure of his feet. He was as graceful as he was predatory.

Prowl watched tensely while his partner took the lead, easing down a short distance before rolling up on a window that seemed to radiate darkness rather than reflect the lights of the halls. It was one of the experimentation rooms, and Prowl did not like the way the temperature of the corridor suddenly and inexplicably plummeted when in close proximity of this specific space.

Jazz gave a sudden jerk, his forearm raising to his faceplate as if to shield himself from an attack.

A moment later, Prowl learned the reason for the defensive move. It was not a physical attack Jazz protected himself from, but an airborne one. Rancid stench overpowered the small space, so rank and vile that it was enough to drive a bot to their knees. The smell... it was not of organic decay this time. For all its overpowering putrid stench, this stink was different; stale and cold and dry like the decrepit tomb of some old, forgotten mausoleum. The ionizing putrefaction of Cybertronian death, as a frame lost its life force and returned to its original state of inanimate metal; rust set in, eating away at once-living metallic tissues. Energon congealed and dried up. This was death in a far more familiar and concentrated manifestation, making the experience that much more unnerving for the pair of Cybertronians caught up in it.

It caused Prowl's processor to spin out in confusion as he failed to understand how his olfactory sensor could spontaneously come back online.

Jazz did not question the anomaly. His expression turned fierce, a little wild.

Prowl sensed the saboteur's urge to move before the silver bot had the chance to dart away. The feeling of it surged through him like a strike of lighting, inspiring him into action faster than what his optics could track. A dark hand shot out, shackling Jazz's wrist with a powerful crushing grip. It was the wrong arm, though. Prowl's injured arm. The effort of such quick and violent movement sent fire screaming up his neural circuits, shocking him with the sudden fervour of pain. Like his olfactory sensor, he had not meant to turn his neural circuits of that arm back on, but they were on now and alerting him to his folly of movement with a vengeance.

Nevertheless, he was committed to his action. He followed through by locking his fingers, his wrist, and his arm to ensure that the only way Jazz could escape was if he tore the arm out of its socket. A distinct possibility, judging by the surging power now whipping through the saboteur with tidal force. Prowl felt the electrical snap of power lashing through the sleek, compact silver frame as a physical forced against the palm of his hand, he could feel it effervescently smart against his own personal field. His armour bristled of its own accord as a measure to brace himself for the moment when Jazz truly started to fight the hand that shackled him.

If Prowl had not grabbed him, Jazz would have run.

He would not have run in fear. An urge like that had most likely been beaten out of Jazz long ago. Prowl knew fear, he knew the feeling of it and what it sounded, smelled, and tasted like, and there was not an ounce of it radiating from Jazz's frame. Instead, he sensed the sudden and intense bout of wild madness that had struck, as if the stench itself had borne the power to send Jazz spiralling back in time to moments when he was as uncontrollable as a whirlwind.

Jazz's optics glared so bright behind his visor that they outshone the white light of the crystal. Two piercing points of light that even outshone the stars themselves. A full-frame shudder worked its way through his handsome frame, starting from the point where Prowl continued to anchor his partner with all the strength in his failing frame.

And then the saboteur blinked. His body language calmed a fraction, only enough to realize that someone was in pain and that, although he should enjoy such a feeling, it left him feeling cold instead. His visor flipped up, head twisting around to see the remains of the temporary patch he had applied to Prowl's shoulder ripped up from its welds from the ferocity of the tactician's movement.

Prowl saw a fraction of sanity return to his partner, allowing him to loosen his hold and let his arm fall back to his side awkwardly, dangling askew to his frame.

"Good," grunted the storm-grey mech. "You're back."

Sharp claws traced the broken weld the followed along the front of Prowl's shoulder. Energon coated his fingers where it dribbled out in a lazy stream.

"That was stupid of ya," Jazz admonished. "Now you're all torn up again."

Prowl frowned darkly, trying to get a grasp on his pounding spark and the nearly out-of-control emotion that struck the moment Jazz almost took a runner. "You nearly ran off again, and this time it would have been for good. This pain is nothing compared to what I might have felt if you got yourself killed."

The words seemed to startle Jazz, only then realizing how far gone he had been thrown in a matter of astroseconds. This was followed shortly by the outrage Prowl had been expecting. Furious, boiling insult that anyone could have gotten the better of him without even laying a hand on him. There was also an underlying sense of concern for what might have happened if he _did_ run. A disturbed sense that he had lost control, but it was not of his own doing.

Prowl felt a trickle of pity for this partner, though was immensely careful to keep any trace of it away from his expression or body language. He subtly shifted his weight, turning his shoulder away and shutting down effected energon lines to stop the leakage. "I could not risk you darting off and getting yourself killed. I depended on you to keep me safe while I was incapacitated by the atmospheric EM charge and I do not mind repaying my debt by keeping you safe with me now."

There was a long stretch of heavy silence, thick with leashed violence while Jazz battled a knee-jerk urge to deny he needed anyone to keep him safe. Prowl watched the many gears and cogs of the saboteur's complex mind spin at warp speed as he thought his way through his current predicament. His piercing white optics looked away for a moment, zeroing in with fanatical intensity on the darkened window that laid so close to his shoulder.

"Fine," the saboteur finally sighed. "Ya wanna keep meh safe? Suffer for it."

"I do believe that is what I have been doing all along," Prowl replied dryly.

Jazz cleared his vents as a means of non-reply, ignoring the slimy yellowed contaminants that sputtered out with the gesture.

"About earlier-"

"Qualify 'earlier'," Prowl sighed.

"Just a breem ago. When Ah...lost it," Jazz replied. "It was the smell, Ah think. There's something about it. Ah got distracted by it."

"The smell?"

"Ah've smelled it before," Jazz continued shrewdly. "It reminded meh of something from... a long time ago. Ah don't know exactly where. Something just clicked inside mah head - one moment mah olfactory sensor was flipping on and the next moment..."

"I was grabbing you before you could go off and get yourself killed," Prowl finished reservedly, leaning back and crossing his good arm across his chest to rest absently on his injured shoulder. "The more I consider the anomaly, the more I believe we inadvertently walked into a psychometric control field. The smell was meant to distract us from the immediate attack so that we would be more susceptible to it. If there is another bot in here with us, it would not have required much from him to set up something like that to waylay us."

It made perfect sense, really. A psychometric control field was of the same ingenious and insidious design as magnesium powder; a trap that could, when planted right, be completely innocuous until it was too late for the victim to escape. But, instead of physical assault, psychometric control tapped into the electrical pulses of a bot's processor and took control of them in the basest manner.

Some bots, like Soudwave and Thundercracker, had perfected the use of psychometric attacks during interrogation and battle, inspiring instant and uncontrollable fear at their discretion. Others, like Firestar, could use their abilities as a means of inducing pleasure and bending others to their will. But, of course, the real weakness of such an attack was that it lost most of its power the moment it was discovered for what it was. The stronger the bot's willpower to fight against the control, the less effective the attack would be.

"Ah didn't even see it coming," Jazz sneered, rubbing the back of his wrist beneath his olfactory sensor where the stench of the hall still stung his very sensitive senses.

"I do believe that was the point. It's probably a general range psychometric control to influence the most prominent state of the victim," Prowl observed, looking down at himself as he realized that with his new knowledge, he was calming down increment by increment. The rushing of his energon and desperate pounding of his spark were slowing back to normal. He had not realized how elevated his vital signs were until the moment he realized he was coming down from the high of them. "You, of course, were already suffering from a bit of your madness. Under the influence here, it made you temporarily lose yourself."

"Luckily, Ah had ya ta catch meh." Jazz swept a glance over his partner before learning what he wished to know. "It made ya feel fear."

"Plenty of it, as you can imagine," Prowl informed wryly.

"Ya controlled it, though. Ya were scared out of your wits, but ya still held on long enough ta grab meh and made sure Ah didn't get mahself killed." A silver hand reached out to offer a light, teasing shove. "Ya sure ya need meh back in Iacon teaching ya this stuff?"

Prowl floundered for a moment. At the time, it had seemed very natural down to an instinctual level to reach out and snare Jazz before anything could happen to him. To look back on it, he could not comprehend how he had managed it in the first place when every sense inside himself had been drowning under the tidal wave of uncontrollable terror that had struck.

"It was a fluke," he reasoned unsteadily.

"A damn good fluke," Jazz countered, sliding his hand from Prowl's good shoulder down to his hand, wrapping his claws around the appendage. A moment later, Prowl's fingers closed around the hand that held him.

"There's still something in that room that's beggin' meh ta check it out," Jazz urged, inching backward toward the door, ending the embrace of their hands. He was getting back to business – they had had too many distractions so far. "Ah won't be distracted by the stink or by mah wild side. If there's something alive in there, Ah'll kill it."

"If it is a Neutral?"

"If it's a Neutral?" Jazz repeated, fitting his shoulder against the open doorway. He still faced Prowl, so the tactician could see when his expression shifted. A dark kind of knowledge instilled itself in the saboteur. "If it was Neutral, it's probably not anymore."

Like quicksilver, Jazz slipped himself inside the Experimentation room that was as lightless as a black hole. A whiff of air puffed out across Prowl's frame as the door slid shut in his faceplate, throwing a fresh breath of rancid stale air over him. Instead of warmth and humidity, there was frigid coldness and a dry emptiness of the air that chilled through his frame. Emptiness and silence like the pit of a grave.

Prowl scrambled to follow, jolted by a sudden rush of fear that clutched at his heels. Just because he was aware of being in a psychometric control field did not mean that he was now immune to the affects. It meant he was now armed with the tools to resist. Just as before, he had more to focus on than the intense tide of wretched fear that boiled up in him. There were more important things at stake.

He nearly head-rushed straight into Jazz's back. As a minibot, the saboteur was shorter than him, a little lighter, and Prowl grabbed him before they both tumbled to the floor.

Jazz expressed a surprised "oomph" as he rocked forward, quickly dislodging himself from Prowl's arms and stepping deeper into the experimentation room.

"No one's here," he exclaimed with stunned insult, his head rotating to examine every dark corner. "Ah could have sworn Ah saw something moving! Someone's gotta be here!"

He wandered deeper into the room, his hands exploring everything within reach. Crusts of brown and blue and every other sort of decayed colour came away on his fingers. Prowl shuddered, tucking his hands close to himself. He was dirty enough. Unlike certain company, he was a bit of a neat freak and preferred to keep as clean as possible when it was an option. Jazz could be a vain creature when he chose to be, but that did not stop him from getting dirty when the option arose.

"I imagine this place has a way of playing tricks on you," Prowl offered.

"Ah don't like it when things play tricks on meh," Jazz replied, making it sound very much like a threat.

An empty frame had been left on the central table in the room, strapped down even in death. It was a femme frame of mid-size featuring basic blue colouring. In the places where blue paint had rubbed away, she had turned grey without the power of her spark to keep her metal frame alive. By the looks of things, the frame had been expired for orns. The environs of Shockwave's labs allowed for quicker disintegration of the metal. Rust had taken root and festered like a disease.

Evidence of haste revealed itself around the frame, as if whoever had been working had left in a hurry. The wheeled table next to the gurney showed tools that had been left behind, gruesome things that were bladed and wicked, stained with all manner of dried, crusty fluids. Experimentation screamed from the details; in the manner of the sections that had been cut away from the frame, how neural circuits and other vital innards had been pulled free and exposed to the air. Strange filaments had been applied to the femme's exposed innards, leading away to machines that she was no longer hooked up to. Deep pits were carved into her exposed chassis, left open and dark. More black graft lines followed along inactive energy conduits, dotting her frame like a map of misery.

Jazz braced himself on one side of the examination table, Prowl mirroring the pose warily. They took note of the lack of faction insignias and came to the simultaneous conclusion that these were the remains of one of the unfortunate Neutrals. Death had not come easy. Upon closer examination, marks of long-term abuse became obvious. This was a creature who had risked life and limb in this unforgiving environment to escape the war, measuring EM-induced madness as a better fate than a violent death at the hands of an Autobot or Decepticon. In the place where she should have found solace and security, Shockwave had stolen her away and tortured her to her untimely death.

In an oddly sentimental gesture, Prowl traced the tips of his fingers down the empty frame's faceplate. For a dwindling species, every needless loss of life was a waste of precious non-renewable resources. It was easy to see that Shockwave did not hold the same philosophy.

"What a damn waste," Jazz spat, as if reading Prowl's mind. Considering their earlier conversation concerning that topic, that was more than a mild possiblity.

"Others might be alive," Prowl offered carefully.

"Or not. Who knows how long Shockwave has had these bots? It took Monracer time ta hear about this happening, time for her ta come, and it took us too long ta get here. Everyone might as well be dead by now," said the saboteur, plunging his fist into one of the dark cavities on the frame in a fit of frustration. Instead of the ring of metal against metal, there was a wet squelch as the saboteur impacted something he had not been expecting. He wrenched his hand free with an electronic shriek, revealing the thick, dark sludge that now coated him. It was thicker than the soup of corpses he had sorted through in the crate – the consistency of thick oil or runny tar, except for the thick chunks of spongy unidentified material of red reds and browns. The smell was horrendous, so vile that it seared its way up his olfactory sensor and caused the the backs of his optics to burn. He flicked his wrist to dislodge the mess, only to fling it across Prowl's front.

"That's disgusting!" Prowl exclaimed, jolting away from the offending mess. His olfactory sensors stung with the revolting stench of it, some foul mixture between metallic and organic rot. He scrambled to turn the sense off again, but found the controls locked. His only saving grace was the stained drying cloth left abandoned on the table next to the tool. He snatched it up before Jazz could steal it, viciously scrubbing his chest free of the mess his partner had so kindly bestowed upon him.

"Ah don't even know what this is supposed ta be," Jazz snarled, still shaking out his polluted hand. He spun around and ripped down one of the tanned alien hides that hung from the ceiling, using it as a towel to wipe off the gunk. "This ain't science! It ain't anything Ah've ever seen before! Only thing Ah've seen so far is a thousand and one ways ta gross meh the frag out!"

Done with his cursing and cleaning, Jazz threw the alien skin to the floor and kicked it. He shook out his hand when he could still feel organic soup sloshing around in his joints. "Ya know, when we finally find Shockwave, Ah'm gonna kill him extra good just for that."

"Charming," Prowl replied, setting aside the cleaning rag when it became obvious that he could never wipe away the feeling of being so deeply violated. In his periphery, he spied the section of wall left exposed when Jazz had ripped down the skin. "There's something on the wall over there."

It took Jazz a moment to realize he was being spoken to as he continued his disparagement of Shockwave and every little thing that had gone wrong during their mission. Especially every drop of slime that happened to violate his figure. In this, Prowl actually felt a little validated – at least he was not the only one disliking being filthy, Jazz simply hid his opinion better.

"Jazz," Prowl cut in when the mumbling turned a little more violent. "The wall. There's something on it."

"Yeah? Like what?" Turning on his heel, Jazz inspected the exposed wall for what had caught Prowl's optic. "Oh, that." He stretched up to get a better look, bracing one hand against the ledge of an anchored table for better leverage as he traced the engraved lines. A low puff of air steamed out his vents.

"Well?" Prowl pressed, stepping to the side of the gurney and crossing his good arm expectantly.

"Ah know this mark," Jazz replied coolly. There was a pause as he reassessed the symbol, his head canting to the side as he thought deeply about it. "Never took Shockwave as the cultist type."

"Cultist?" Well, that wasa curious discovery. Prowl came the rest of the way around the table to get a better look, noting the dimensions of the craftily cut symbol. A wide circle delineated the outer edge while a single long line bisected the shape through the center. An arching line grew from either side of the central line, creating a trident-like design. A cold rush of recognition flooded through the tactician's frame, followed by an equally searing burn of reflexive anger.

Jazz immediately sensed the change in the bot beside him, and it caused the saboteur to suddenly bristle in response.

"_Psi ex Machina," _Prowl announced through clenched mouthplates. Part cultist group and part terrorist group, the _Psi ex Machina_ were among one of the oldest groups of fanatics on Cybertron. Their ultimate pursuit was the purity of the mind, exempting all lowly distractions like friendship, family, and emotions. Even to the exemption of the spark itself. Members who adhered to the _Machina_ tenets wished to ascend to what they believed was the ultimate form of Cybertronian potential – pure thought, pure logic, in a pure machine.

To Security Response, the _Psi ex Machina_ had been shadows on the walls. They were there, no matter in the dark or light, but they were always too quick, too smart, too fast to be caught. The only evidence that they had been there at all was the damages they left behind – whispers in the dark, bots whose minds had been ravaged by attempts to rid them of their weaknesses, and a three-pronged symbol that announced exactly who was responsible for their terrible misdeeds.

They were responsible for more damages than Prowl was willing to admit to.

"Sounds like ya got history with them," Jazz noted carefully, reading more of his partner than Prowl wished to give away in that moment.

"Unfortunately."

"Did they invite ya inta their little fan club before the war? It's your kind of party, isn't it?"

"I would rather not discuss it here," Prowl replied brusquely.

"Fair enough," Jazz rejoined evenly. "We'll discuss it later."

Prowl let the threat hang in the air, staring straight ahead and refusing to acknowledge the knowing expression on his partner's faceplate. Of course Jazz would be able to read him like an open book. What was the point in bothering to hide anything from him? No longer able to stand staring at the mark that shared a dark history with him, he turned on his heel and drew to an abrupt halt.

"Where is the corpse?"

"What?" Jazz spun around at the query, bracing his hands to his hips. "It was just there a moment ago."

"_Ah,"_ creaked a new voice that had Prowl and Jazz nearly jumping out of their armour, "but that is the trouble with moments ago – they are here and gone before you know it."

Pinpointing the source of the voice, Prowl narrowed his glacial optics on the speaker... and suddenly discovered where the wayward corpse had wandered off to. Appearing to stand under its own power, the dead Cybertronian stood silhouetted in the open doorway on its crooked, broken legs, a little lopsided and shaky from the condition of its expired frame. In all ways it still appeared to be dead, from the darkened metal that was slowly consumed by rust and other manifestations of decay, to the slackened mouthplates that hung open at an angle; the gaping holes in the frame slowly drained of their congealed dark sludge, pooling across the grimy floor.

Its frightening liveliness appeared to be concentrated in its optics. Dark only astroseconds ago, the cloudy lenses now shone with intense amber light that seemed to pierce the darkness like devilish twin stars.

"Ain't ya supposed ta be on the table?" Jazz suddenly intoned, sounding impressively mild in the face of something so... unusual. "Ya know, more ta that, ain't ya supposed ta be _dead_?"

A burst of laughter bubbled up from a static-laden vocal processor, shrieking out like claws down armour, flapping a dislocated jaw with every tide of noise. It moved in a combination of jerky resistance due to the limitations of damage and death and a bizarre gracefulness that was entirely out of place on a corpse that, for all intents and purposes, should still be very much _dead_. One arm swung up, a broken finger wagging at the as if they were being naughty younglings. There was madness in that dread expression as it watched them.

"That was then, and this is now," answered the corpse. "Then and now are, quite obviously, not the same thing."

"Dead and alive are also not the same thing, and they tend to be mutually exclusive. You appear to be violating that concept," Prowl observed, not quite managing the same level of nonchalance his partner exuded with aplomb.

"And here I thought you were supposed to be smart!" exclaimed their undead company. "Bah! I shall have to give you a lesson, my pets. You are in luck, because I am a very good teacher! Or a very bad one, depending on how you learn. Do you like hard lessons? Because those are the ones I like to teach."

Prowl raised his good arm and aimed his charged gun, though he could not bring himself to fire an acid pellet just yet. For one, he was not sure what effect acid might have on this creature if not even death seemed to keep it down. Secondly, if there was a way of capturing and interrogating it, further damage to the thing might impede any valuable information that could be gleaned.

Jazz was likewise holding back, daggers at the ready as he assessed this bizarre new twist on their adventures in Horror Land.

"Teach us the lesson," the saboteur invited in a tone that was at odds with his battle-ready exterior. Clearly he was of the same mind as Prowl: hang back and learn what they could before stepping in and... doing something. For as much life experience as Jazz had, he had nothing to relate to in terms of interacting with the seemingly undead. "What is the difference between now and moments ago?"

"Everything is the difference!" exclaimed the mad corpse, sludge sloshing down its front in excitement. "The world is never quite the same as it is from one moment to the next. We are here one moment and gone the next. Here to there, there to here. One moment cannot be the exact same as the next, or else that would be the same moment as the first, in which case you would be either going back in time or that time all together has stopped! What utter madness that would be!"

Prowl felt Jazz slide a sidelong glance in his direction, though resisted the urge to return a look of utmost perplexity. The storm-grey mech got the distinct feeling Jazz was able to follow along with the rambling much better than he could. That should hardly be surprising.

"And even then, to go back in time with awareness of time, those two moments would in fact be different even if they were the same! The mere act of going back in time would, for that one creature, be two moments, and for everyone else it would change the potential of a single moment," continued their odd company, swinging its loose arms as if directing an orchestra "And for time to stop… there would be no moments at all. Time is required to create a moment, and the creation of a single recognizable moment id defined by its difference to all other moments, requiring time to separate one from the other! But that is neither here nor there, because time is moving forward and I have, in fact, proven this by being there for one moment and now I am here the next. It is the simplest of lessons, my pets! The simplest!"

Jazz inclined his head, easing up alongside Prowl and staying the other mech with a discreet touch to his back. The saboteur's palm was a lukewarm presence that radiated through Prowl's frame. He felt as if he could not grow any tenser. He was quickly coming to the end of his tolerance for the bizarre.

"So," Jazz breathed calmly. "What you're saying is that one moment ta the next can be measured by the amount of entropy that changes its state."

"Entropy. Yes, entropy. I knew Entropy once, but he is better known as Chaos now. It is a promotion…or demotion… depending on what side of the floor you dance on. I like to dance on the ceiling. There are generally less dancers there."

That headache Prowl thought he had rid himself of was slowly coming back to him the longer he was forced to listen to the nonsensical monologue. In the course of war, he had always showed incredible restraint when it came to the temptations of being trigger-happy. In this instance, his trigger finger was beginning to itch.

Jazz yet again stayed him with a hand resting between the hollow of his doorwings, both a comforting and commanding touch.

"I see you there, listening to me. You're a good student, little silver pet. A good listener. But then, you look as if you have always been a good little student. Is that true? Have you always been a good little pet? Take what lessons you've been taught until – _suddenly! _- the student becomes the master. Are you the master yet? No? No, I don't believe you are. You are my pet. A pet cannot be a master if it is only a pet." There came cackling laughter that caused a renewed slew of congealed energon and other particulates to be dislodged from the slackened mouthplates. Debris flew out with every loud, chilling bout of madly mirthful noise.

Jazz was unfazed by the laughter, keeping himself cool as ice while his mind worked at a steady, deadly pace. "Ah was your pet a moment ago, but that moment is gone. Perhaps in this moment, Ah am now the master and you are the pet. As ya have said, moments change and the world is never quite the same when they pass."

"Oh! He knows how to the play the game! What a wonderful surprise! But, maybe I am not as surprised as I should be. The dead are very hard to surprise, and so are the things that are not living. It takes a special teacher to teach a special student. You had that didn't you, my pet. You had a very special teacher to make your optics so seeing, even if you are still blind," exclaimed the fiend, shifting with its slack mouthplates gaping and its leering amber optics turning sly. Amber optics that were, in a way, hauntingly familiar. A chill stole through the air with the sudden shift in the possessed frame's demeanour. The last thing anyone expected was for an ancient language to suddenly drop from those stained mouthplates, but there was no mistaking the aching familiarity of Kev reaching Jazz's audios.

"_She taught you well, didn't she? That master of yours. That Xerxia."_

Prowl might not have known what passed between the two bots in the astrosecond it took to speak the foreign language, though he was fully aware of what the result was. A moment's distraction left Jazz's psyche open again to the effect of the psychometric field, bidding him on the instant attack. This time, Prowl's reflexes were for naught. Jazz slipped through his numb fingers like mercury, leaping over the table in the center of the room to fly at the taunting corpse with claws unleashed.

Surprisingly spry for a dead thing, the possessed corpse leapt aside in time to avoid being tackled to the ground.

"My, my, it seems the little pet has a temper," said the creature, dancing away in jerking movements from the swipe of Jazz's claws.

"Jazz, it's baiting you! Don't fall for its tricks!" Prowl yelled.

Laser-like amber optics zeroed in on the tactician, locking on with stunning precision and malevolence.

"Tricks?" it chirped. "Oh no, I come only to play games. It has been so long since I have played a game. The one who was here before you, he was no fun. A very rigid toy that did not dance so prettily when I pulled his strings. I have a game in mind, if you would like to play with me." One hooked finger extended, hovering close to Jazz's faceplate, jerking back before it could be ripped from its socket. In rebound, it shot out and rammed the saboteur in the center of his visor, leaving a generous spiral fracture.

"Tag, you're it."

With a kick of its heels, the animated corpse leapt into the hall and sprinted away.

Prowl exclaimed several warnings as he watched Jazz take off after the creature. His warnings were followed by heated curses, quite sure his partner would not listen to a single one of his precautions. Not quite as fast as Jazz, Prowl kept as close as possible. The chase was not very long, though lack of distance was compensated by the thrill of the chase itself. The savage shattering of silence through the labs echoed like gunfire – pounding feet, vicious curses, and the laughter of a creature that Prowl could neither classify as dead or alive.

Double doors at the end of the hall were coming up fast. Block glyphs across the dull grey surface announced the space beyond as Holdings. There was a manual lock on the door. Heavy metal bars laid in parallel lines across the windows.

Prowl cursed a mean streak as he started to draw up before he ran headlong into the heavy doors.

Jazz barrelled on with single-minded determination, just as his quarry picked up speed as if it meant to run straight through the solid doors. With an enraged snarl, Jazz pushed the last of his strength into one last burst of speed, catching the corpse by a flailing wire and managing to whip the frame across the floor. It tumbled head over heels several times before colliding with the wall in a cataclysmic crash that should have stunned it for good. Before it could gather its wits, the saboteur was upon it with a flourish. He took the head between his hands and smashed it into the floor so that the weakened metal caved in, an optic popped out, and rattled pieces of processor came spilling out amongst slime and a concentrated version of horrendous stench.

"How do ya know about mah master!" Jazz snarled, hands cinching tighter around a neck he was near throttling.

"A better question would be how do you _not_ know about her?" was the airy reply – which was received with another smash into the floor. The back of the corpse's head opened up to spill the rest of the processor in every direction. The victim seemed not to feel its assault.

"Ah'm not in the mood to play games!"

"Too bad, because I am a master at them. Mind games in particular." The one amber optic left glowing did so in a manner that all but dared the saboteur to squeeze hard enough to pop its head off.

Prowl hit the floor with a clang, both hands seizing Jazz's wrists to pry him away from his prey.

"You're going to kill it!"

The corpse peered up with a crooked smile. "I assure you, that which is not alive cannot die. I am, however, enjoying a delightful ride."

It was quickly silenced with a vicious shake that whipped its head back and forth, banging its chin to its chest and the back of its head to the floor.

"What are you?" Jazz spat viciously. "Are you _Machina_? Are ya one of Shockwave's experiments?"

"This is like asking if I am a single brushstroke of a painting! I am the paintings themselves! I own the art gallery!" crowed the corpse with insane delight. "This puppet I dance in, though. This is Shockwave's. It's beautiful, isn't it? What he does to them – how they scream and beg while he does such unspeakable things. If I own the art gallery, then he is the artist."

Prowl felt the wave of irritation as it radiated off his partner. He could hear the stress of joints in Jazz's frame as he loomed ever nearer to the taunting little nightmare. Hoping to expedite the encounter, he directed his next question to the creature:

"Who are you?"

"I thought you would never ask," it sighed, grasping Jazz's horns with surprising strength for something that had half its head smashed in. Amber optics held the saboteur in thrall as a sing-song rhyme fell past trembling mouthplates. "I am No One. Who are you? Are you No One too?"

All it took was a flex of Jazz's fists to cause the corpse's head to roll across the floor, though its laughter continued on down the hall as echos.

"You killed it," Prowl intoned numbly.

"It wasn't givin' us any good answers. Ah put it out of its misery," Jazz replied, falling back on his aft with a long groan.

"It said something in another language-."

"Kev. It spoke in Kev, and it knew about Xerxia. It had ta be some sort of Old One or...something. Ah don't know." He huffed a pained, mirthless sound while pressing the heels of his hands over his optics. "Maybe comin' here halfcocked wasn't such a good idea after all. We're in over our heads. Ah've never dealt with anything like this before."

"We have come this far," Prowl pointed out grimly, prying Jazz's hands away from his faceplate. "It would be illogical to back out now. Beyond that door will be our answer to whether the Neutrals survived or not. After we find that truth, we will leave this place. We will go home and reassess everything we have learned here, from the experiments to _Psi ex Machina_ to whatever it is we will find in Holdings. If you still choose to hunt Shockwave, we will be better prepared in the future. After this, I doubt anything will ever surprise us again."

A wry smirk quirked the edge of Jazz's mouthplates. "So that's your pep talk?"

Prowl rocked back on his heels. "I suppose it is."

"It's not the worst Ah've ever heard. Not the best either."

With a grunt, Prowl eased to his feet and offered Jazz his good arm to help the saboteur up. Jazz gave one last good kick to the officially and unquestionably headless and dead corpse that still laid on the ground.

"I will take that under advisement," the tactician noted, craning to see through the high, barred window for any clue of what laid on the other side. It was too dark and grimy for any useful insight. He resigned himself to whatever fate awaited them in Holdings.

"So," Jazz intoned, resting his hands on the heavy manual lock before he released it to lurch open the door. "If we die in here, ya think we'll end up like that?" He nodded to undead company.

"It is a disturbing possibility, though I find it highly unlikely," Prowl sighed. "I will make a deal with you. If we make it out of here alive and in one piece, I will let you into my head to do whatever it is that would please you the most. How is that for incentive?"

Jazz disposition improved noticeably, heaving the lock to Holdings aside with sudden eagerness. "Ah'd say that's the best pep talk Ah've ever heard."


	38. Chapter 38

See? What did I tell you! Reviews bring inspiration, and inspiration brings chapters! 8D I gotta admit, this one was exhilarating to write. Exciting. Emotional. I'm super-duper proud that I got it done...and a little sad that it's finished. But you know what? You're going to love it. Unless you hate it. Actually, I imagine you might be doing a little of both by the end. In any event, I bet you'll be happy to have some questions answered and some emotions explored.

I was genuinely surprised and humbled and amazed by the turnout of reviewers for the last chapter. Oh my Godzilla, I did not think there were so many fans left waiting so patiently in the wings! I will have to keep that in mind next time I am even contemplating a hiatus! XD

As a note to everyone who submitted a review as a "Guest", I highly recommend signing in if you have an account with the site, or otherwise placing some sort of name to the anonymous review. Otherwise, my Thank You Corner at the beginning of chapters is going to look a little something like this: Thank you to **SunlightOnTheWater, Guest, Guest, Camfield, Gamemice, Guest, DemonSurfer, Guest, femme4jack, NarnianOpal, Katea-Nui, Cybela, StarscreamII, Guest, Fianna9, Peacewish, IBrokeThe4thWall, renegadewriter8, Tiamat1972, Guest, Guest, Guest, CNightJoy, Guest, Poisoninja, Guest, PJLover666, Guest, VaRa129, Daklog73, Faecat, TransformersLover95, Prowls-little-angel, Guest, Stripperella, Guest, Guest, Kia Mianara**, and **SwedishDragon**. I'm all for anonymity on the internet, but all those Guests makes me feel like a super-bad host for not being able to thank each and every single one of you by you by your actual fake internet penname.

Also, I would like to thank **Guest** for being my 1500th reviewer! Yayyyyyyyyy **Guest**! Now let's root for 2000 reviews! What do ya say, everybody? Can we do it! 8D

My love to you all, named and unnamed reviewers!

**Chapter 38**

There were eight cells in Holdings.

Four dark cells lined the aisle on either side, closed off by thick metal bars running from top to bottom. Lighting was at its dimmest in this section of the building. The bulbs were small and dying, casting weakened yellow light in tiny halos around their anchors on the ceiling. Everywhere else, there was deep black shadow so thick that it laid like a blanket over every surface.

Somewhere beyond the range of sight, a continuous liquid drip chimed ominously.

Jazz took the first step into Holdings, landing in something soft and cool that squelched under his weight and gave a soft 'pop' before releasing a pocket of rancid air. Each step that followed sunk into the spongy surface of the floor, squelching and squishing with thick, wet sounds that filled the dark space. Jazz did not look down. He did not turn on the lights on his frames. He knew he did not want to find out what he was stepping on.

The air was heaviest in this section of the labs. Cloistering in a manner that was wholly foreign and alien. Warm, heavy air pressed in on all sides like the breath of a beast, its maw gaping open as it stretched to swallow its victims whole. Humidity was thick as well. Disconcertingly thick and powerful, clinging to every surface and dragging all moving bodies down with its wet weight. It was slimy and foetid, made worse by the horrible stench that carried with it on every weak shift of air.

"Methane," Prowl intoned in a carefully modulated voice, pressing his mouthplates close to Jazz's audio even though neither of them needed to whisper. Holdings simply exuded the feeling that they needed to be quiet, lest they disturb whatever was in there with them. "High levels of methane, hydrogen sulphide, and carbon dioxide – indicative of organic rot. Ionization is also in heavy saturation. Oxygen is being pumped in through the vents."

"It's like the magnesium chamber," Jazz murmured back, never taking his sights off the blackness ahead of him. "One little spark would probably blow this place sky high."

Prowl made a noise of agreement.

They passed between the first two cages and saw nothing in the depths of the shadow. Shadow crawled up the corners and saturated the air. There was no discernible movement in the small spaces to hint at a creature being held captive.

"The cages appear empty," Prowl noted cautiously, taking a single wary step toward the cell on his right. The aisle itself was moderately wide, large enough to accommodate a gurney rolling through. Drawing up to the bars, the tactician attempted to adjust the settings of his optics in order to utilize the low light more efficiently.

"They're not empty," Jazz pointed out grimly. "We're not alone in here."

Prowl made the mistake of glancing at his partner. It was only for a moment, but that was enough. Sudden movement shot out from his periphery like a crack of lightning, too fast for Prowl to evade. His wrist of his injured arm was snared in the grip of something leathery and thick, powerful enough to jerk him to his knees and drag him until his arm was fully wrung through the bars up to his shoulder.

Above the sound of his agonized shout, all chaos broke loose in the other cages. The captives came alive in flurries of movement, screaming loud and hard as they pounded on the floor and walls with their fists, shaking the bars of their cells. The cacophony of noise was shrill and horrifying. Most of it did not sound at all like noises a Cybertronian would normally make. The captives threw their bodies like battering rams into whatever surface they could damage. Vibrations from the wild activity shook loose layers of grime and rust flakes from the ceiling, causing a storm of dirt to rain down on them. Through falling debris, a flash of the misshapen figured in the cells could be seen every time one came close enough to their cage doors.

Jazz ignored the anarchy of the aisle. If the cages had held their prisoners for this long, they would hold a little longer. His main concern was Prowl. He dropped to his knees in the thick carpet of gooey debris that lined the floor, shuffling to Prowl's side to aid the writhing tactician.

"My arm!" he coughed harshly. "Something's- got it..."

The stress on the joints caused a low, grinding tremor to pass through the Autobot. He was heaving hard through his vents, harsh breaths that flung droplets of slime in all directions. The pale light of his optics flashed in panic as he felt his internal wiring begin to give away under the increasing pressure. Energon was spilling out again from his mutilated patch, leaking from a tear in one of his energon lines where twisted metal had cut through the polymer. The dull glow spread dimly across the floor, burning everything it came in contact with.

"Hold on!" Jazz commanded, hands flying in all directions as he tried to figure out what to do first. "Just – damn it, hold on, Prowler!"

Prowl's wide optics met Jazz's with a look of utter disbelief. Hold on? _Hold on! _Easy for him to say! It wasn't Jazz who was slowly being gutted as he internal wiring was ripped out along with one of his limbs. Prowl certainly did not appreciate playing tug-of-war with one of his frame parts laying on the line. Warnings flashed across his vision at the imminent separation of the arm. Lists of mounting damages spiralling out from the site scrolled down at high speed. The only way to minimize the damage was to voluntarily lose his arm. Cut function to the limb, disengage wiring, shut down energon flow, release locks-

"No! Do not release the locks on your arm!" Jazz howled above the scream of the captives. His hands clenched tight around the tactician's shoulder, causing Prowl to bellow with the added pressure. It hurt, Jazz knew it hurt, by he was doing it to counter the pressure of the thing that was attempting to rip the limb off.

"Let go!" Prowl panted, writhing and kicking for purchase on the slick floor. "Let go! It's just an arm! I can get a new one!"

A cold chill of rage washed down Jazz's back. His optics flashed and he snarled something brutal and coarse in his native language.

"Ah am not letting go!" Jazz shouted, his grip tightening until all the tactician could see was black and white spots erupting across his vision. "You lose your arm in here and that's like signing your own death warrant. Ah'm making sure ya make good on that promise ya just made."

Prowl hacked up a rough noise that was a bad mixture between incredulous laugh and agonized shout.

Desperate to do something, Jazz dug the claws of one hand into the armour of Prowl's separating shoulder and arm, using his own hand as the bridge to keep the two connected. The force required to pierce the tactician's armour drilled Jazz's claws down and cracked them to the quick. He barely felt the injury to himself. Every joint from the tips of his fingers and through to his wrist burned as they were stretched and strained beyond their limit. Prowl's free hand flailed, latching on to Jazz's wrist as if clutching an anchor to life. Through that touch, Jazz sensed the immense pain that rocketed through his partner's frame.

"Ah know it hurts. Ah know. Just hold on – hold on, okay?" Jazz gritted out tensely. "It'll be over in an astrosecond."

He lurched crookedly to his knees, keeping the one hand anchored to Prowl's shoulder while he stretched his frame in the opposite direction. His free arm worked its way through the narrow space between the heavy adamantium bars. Straining, panting, he clawed blindly into the dark until he felt something catch on the tips of his fingers. Prowl jerked uncontrollably, legs kicking, frame bucking. Every movement banged against Jazz's frame, jolting him away from the focus he needed to free the tactician.

"Hold still!"

"I am trying!" Prowl groaned.

Jazz spat a curse, trying for a new tactic. He reached out for the rope holding his partner, looping it around his hand several times before bracing his weight and yanking back with all his strength. In the dim, slowed-down moments that followed, Jazz became aware of several things at once. First, the restraint around Prowl's arm was not quite the rope he thought it was. In fact, there was a distinctly fleshy quality to it. Secondly, the captive inside the cell was not quite as Cybertronian as he hoped it would be.

And lastly, Shockwave really was an artist of sorts – a really macabre, insane artist of nightmares.

With no time to think about the thing now pressed up against the bars of the cage, Jazz pulled free his damaged claws from Prowl's shoulder and used them to slash through the tentacle-like appendage pulled taut by his other hand. A piercing scream cut above the noise of everything else. A viscous wash of hot, discoloured fluid bathed Jazz's front. He felt the touch of an electric charge and realized that small electro-fillaments had been sheered away with the fleshy tentacle. Wires snapped and crackled weakly, giving off plumes of acrid black smoke.

Prowl lurched backwards as the pressure in his arm let up. He rolled to his front and heaved heavily, bracing himself on his knees without the strength to lift his head from the floor. He clutched at his dislocated arm, fists clenching and unclenching sporadically.

"Let meh see it," Jazz called breathlessly, rolling his partner over. "Ah can help. Ah'll weld it or something-"

"You can't," Prowl coughed roughly, shuddering under the saboteur's handling. He knew Jazz was trying to be careful, but every little touch burned through him as if someone were putting a live flame to raw neural circuits. He was so distracted by the pain that roared through every affected system that he could not concentrate long enough to shut down neural receptors in those areas. This was worse than getting shot in the first place. At least the plasma blast was a clean through-and-through. This felt like a cataclysmic full-systems meltdown.

"Right, right – no flames. No electrical currents." Jazz cursed a long, frustrated chain of words, scrapping his hands over his faceplate, dragging his stained claws over his head. The saturation of flammable gases was too high in the room; their weapons were not configured for the environment. It felt like only moments before that Jazz had been making his flippant remark about blowing the place sky high.

"Just...put it back," Prowl grunted, swallowing back the dirty energon that threatened to purge out. "Shove my arm back."

Jazz revved a wavering note, gathering his partner into his lap so that Prowl had something solid to lean on and brace his weight against. "It's gonna hurt."

"And you don't think it hurts right now?" Prowl hissed acidly.

"Just thought Ah'd warn ya. Also, mah medical skills might be a little rusty," Jazz warned, taking a deep drag of rancid air. "Here goes nothing." He grasped the injured arm between two hands and gave it a hard wrench inward, flinching as a terrible shriek erupted from the tactician. Prowl arched so hard that only his head and heels touched the ground. Static pitched out his vocal processor.

Jazz hung on for the sake of his friend. Forever felt like it passed before he sensed a change, feeling the tension begin to drain from Prowl's frame. Sharp white optics watched vigilantly as each writhing movement lessened, each expression was less emphatic than the last. Soon, Prowl laid braced in Jazz's lap as he panted and groaned quietly while riding out the last dregs of throbbing that lingered throughout his frame.

Jazz did not realize he was petting the side of Prowl's faceplate until the moment that the tactician's shaky hand grasped his and pressed it to the warm metal at the side of his head. A gesture of solidarity and thanks. Prowl's optics remained closed, unable to see the shift of expressions working their was across Jazz's features.

"It is quiet," the tactician suddenly noted, cracking his optics open.

It was then that Jazz realized that the cacophony that had started the moment Prowl had been seized was no ended. His audios still rang with echoes of the violent uprising, and the heavy silence in its wake made the lingering echoes especially loud. Now the gazes of the trapped captives were on them in rapt fascination, their deformed frames pressed up against the barriers of their cages, hands wrapped around the bars. Jazz could not read these creatures like he could read a normal Cybertronian. What Shockwave had done to them had made them something other... something beyond what Jazz had been taught to understand. But he felt a wrenching in his spark as he met the stare of the creature that had grabbed Prowl. One arm was tucked to its chest, still oozing where Jazz had cut away the retractable appendage that extended from its lower arm. It was hunched, moving on too many legs, staring with too may optics, broken and defeated, clearly in a realm of misery and pain that the saboteur could never comprehend.

The closer it came to the aisle, the more Jazz could see of it. It was a patchwork of grafted organic material and rusted sections of metal. Blisters, ooze, and infectious puss bubbled from every seam between the organic and inorganic, each side violently rejecting the other. Metal warped, creaked, and groaned as it warred with the incompatible flesh it had been blended with. Spots of black necrosis spread extensively across the organic pieces, collapsed veins dark and twisted beneath sallow patchworks sewn together with copper thread that stained the flesh a grotesque mossy grey-green. Bits and pieces of it appeared to be liquifying, slowly disintegrating and sloughing off to reveal raw and rotting layers beneath. Tangles of wires and exposed nerves. Hydraulics and muscle tissue. One wrong move and a seam opened up, spilling forth a tide of discoloured brown-blue congealed goo, bringing with it the overpowering stench of death and decay.

The pitiable creature came to stop just before the end of its cage. It had four optics and three gelatinous things that could have been organic eyes at one time, but had since succumbed to the accelerated death process. Now they were drooping bags of cloudy puss. Most of its faceplate was slack, a patchwork of organic and inorganic. Black and brown melded together, coarse with ulcerated tumours that leaked foul smelling green fluid. Heavy mandibles made up the structure of the mouthplates. Its overall shape was vaguely arachnid.

It sunk to its knees to be even with Jazz.

"We thought... you were here to hurt us."

The words were awkward, nearly incomprehensible. The sounds were soggy, lazy and slow compared to the typical speed of Cybertronian speech. Whatever had been done to the creature had severely compromised the structure of its vocal processor.

Prowl coughed weakly, pushing to sit up higher against Jazz's chest to get a better look at the sad creature that, only moments before, had been attempting to divest him of an arm. Seeing the poor thing fully now, how defeated and broken it was, Prowl suddenly had nothing but pity for it. To hold a grudge against it would have been entirely empty.

"We are Autobots," he rasped. He forwent the complication of qualifying Jazz's position with the Autobots. As blurred as his perceptions were at the moment, Prowl did note that Jazz nodded his confirmation rather than deny it.

"I see that now." A deadened gaze fell to the red marking peeking through the grime coating Prowl's frame.

Prowl revved weakly, grimacing. "We came here at the bidding of a Neutral from Iacon. She said Neutrals were going missing from the Tyger Pax-Kaon border region. Can you confirm this?"

"Yes," replied the arachnid creature. "I was Decepticon once, but the others here – they are Neutral."

Jazz shifted carefully, mindful of Prowl's weight in his lap. "What were ya called as a Decepticon?"

"I don't know. I can't remember," was the quietly morose response. "I am called Blackarachnia here."

"Shockwave did this to you, didn't he?" Prowl asked needlessly.

"Yes," Blackarachnia breathed, withdrawing into herself out of shame. Mismatched arms wrapped tightly around her torso in a hug that could never give comfort. Barely visible beneath scarring was a faded Decepticon marking. "Shockwave... is that what the bot with the yellow optic is called?"

"Yes," Jazz confirmed.

"It's nice to finally know the designation of the bot who did this to me."

"Do ya know_ how_ he did it?" the saboteur asked. He had some guesses, though guesses were as far as he could get with all this mad scientist crazy slag.

An answer didn't come right away. It was mulled over carefully, painful memories surfacing and roiling together in careful contemplation. Finally, there came a deep breath and creaking words fell into the silence. "There is a species far from our galaxy called the Nebulons. They have created techno-organic technology. It is a blend of technology and organic structures. Shockwave... re-engineered it, I think. I don't know..."

"That's alright," Jazz assured before panic could set in. He could hear the wavering tone in the experiment's voice and knew she...it... the thing was moments away from breaking down. "Don't worry about it. We can research it later. What you just gave us is a good start."

Long-fingered hands wrapped cautiously around the bars of the cell door. Optics full of misery and burgeoning hope peered out at the pair in the aisle as if they were saviours.

"What can I call you?" she asked wearily.

"This is Prowl," Jazz said, gesturing to his partner. "Ah am Jazz."

"Jazz."

Silver glinted in the low light with a nod of confirmation. "Yes, Ah am called Jazz."

"I have heard of you. Everyone knows about you," Blackarachnia said slowly. "You're a killer."

Jazz flinched at the label. "Ah'm a lot of other things too."

"Maybe." A piece of rotted graft flesh slid off the side of her head, hitting the floor with a wet plop. Blackarachnia did not acknowledge that she was falling apart. "Are you here to help us?"

Her fellow captives took in a collective breath. They watched raptly for the answer.

"Ah don't know if we can help ya," Jazz admitted, tasting the bitterness those words left in his mouthplates. "Ah don't know if anybody can help ya now."

Blackarachnia shook her head, a very sad smile forming around her mandibles. "I didn't mean set us free. Not that kind of help. We're not looking to go back to what we were."

Jazz shuttered his optics, knowing exactly what was being asked of him. He probably should have seen it coming from the moment he saw the results of Shockwave's twisted ambitions.

"Will you do it?" Blackarachnia whispered, hands clenching desperately around the bars. "Please, Jazz."

"Do ya even know what you're asking?" Jazz croaked.

"Yes, I know exactly what I am asking. I'm asking for freedom from this," Blackarachnia insisted. "You can make it quick for us. None of us can stand to be like this anymore. We want the nightmare to end."

Having never lacked for words before, it was odd to suddenly find that Jazz had no words to say. Murder was not new to him. A list of nameless bots laid in his past where they had begged for death as freedom for a thousand punishments he inflicted on them. They were all meaningless kills that came in one moment and were gone the next, no more troublesome than a bump in the road.

This was the first time anyone had ever sat before him and humbly asked to be killed with mercy.

It didn't feel like something Jazz was capable of.

"Jazz," Prowl prompted quietly. "Jazz, look at me."

A trembling hand came to rest over Jazz's, prompting the saboteur to look down. Prowl matched his gaze with a steady stare. The Autobot rulebook was chalk full of adamant reasons why killing bots was a bad idea. There were dozens rules, laws, and injunctions all meant to preserve life in all its forms. Prowl could likely recite every word of every rule in perfect verbatim. He knew that the rules laid down for the Autobots were there for the sake of everyone. Rules were important, and to obey them was paramount to preserve order.

And he also knew there was room in the Autobot rulebook for mercy.

"You can do this," he said, easing up to sit on his own. "They need you to do this."

"Ah don't..." Silver vents sucked in a hard drag of air.

"You don't what?"

"Never mind. Ah'll do it," Jazz ceded heavily, shaking his head. "Ah guess... Ah have ta do it."

"I will give you privacy for it," Prowl assured, grunting as he got to his feet. Jazz quickly scrambled to help, letting the tactician rest against him until he was stable. Prowl ran the backs of his fingers down the side of Jazz's faceplate as a means of comfort for something he knew the saboteur was hurting for. "Come find me in the Administration section when you are done. I will be there waiting."

He limped a step away. Then another.

Tension snapped, prompting Jazz to catch Prowl around the arm. He leaned up and pressed his mouthplates to his partner's audio, breathing quiet words that none other in Holdings could hear. All optics were on them, even as Jazz stopped speaking and just stood there in the presence of the anchor he suddenly realized he depended on more than he realized. Pressing his mouthplates together, the saboteur leaned away and matched Prowl's gaze. The tactician's optics had hardened, his expression turning unreadable.

"I will be careful," Prowl assured, resuming his slow trek out of Holdings.

Jazz sighed, now cold in Prowl's absence despite the overwhelming presence of cloistering heat around him. He inspected his damaged claws. They would be no use to him in what he was about to do.

"Jazz?" Blackarachnia prompted.

"In a hurry, huh?" Jazz tried to joke, though his humour quickly evaporated. The programmed lock on the cell door felt like nothing under his touch. He heard the screech of rusty metal, and he could feel anticipation lacing the air. He felt each life in the room pressing in on all sides, weighing in on his senses like leaded weights. He could feel their misery and their pain and their sudden hope that it would be over soon. All of it made his head spin.

Blackarachnia stayed on her knees as she waited. Her optics slid closed, shoulders drooping. Jazz sensed that she was making her peace for the end.

He hesitated at her back. The shine of the blade on his dagger looked obscene in the dark. When he finally touched her, necrotic skin sloughed off from her shoulders and neck. It must have hurt terribly. It looked like it hurt terribly. Blackarachnia endured in silence. One of Jazz's hands came around to brace her head, cradling it counter to the force of the blade he was about to euthanize her with. With his other hand, he held his dagger and let the heel of his palm rest against the lukewarm slime of Blackarachnia's throat. They rested together like that for an extended period of time. Jazz could not recall a time when he had held someone so gently, especially in the moments before he killed them.

Beneath his hands, Blackarachnia lifted her chin.

It was the sign Jazz did not know he was waiting for. His grip on her tensed, hardened for all but a single passing of time, and then he felt warmth flood over his fingers. Like a tension wire being cut, the frame went lax. Death set in quickly. Jazz continued to hold her until the last of her fluids stopped flowing, heat rapidly escaping her lifeless frame. Instead of dropping her, he took to a knee and laid her in place. Death rites were not something Jazz was intimately familiar with, but he tried. He crossed her arms over her chest and made it look like she was only recharging...minus the wet, gaping slit deeply separating her head from her shoulders.

Thankfully, whatever Shockwave had done to his victims, he had not changed enough of their internal structure to make the killing blow more difficult that it had to be. The slice that severed all energy sources between the processor and frame was clean and straight; the ensuing energy surge from the attack would have been enough to fry her processor and extinguish her spark simultaneously. It had once been Jazz's preferred method of dispatching bots from behind. Quick and easy and with little fuss. Now, staring down at the results, it seemed too crude. Yet it was all he could offer in the ways of a quick and painless end.

He got up from the floor and trudged slowly to the next cell where he would euthanize the occupants there.

He glanced back at Blackarachnia.

She looked peaceful.

* * *

Prowl waited outside the door until he heard the sound of a frame being laid to the floor.

His spark gave a lurch that he felt roll like a tide through his frame. Leaning closer to the door he had left ajar, he listened carefully for the creak of rusty hinges and the slow, lonely shuffle of a lone bot making his way to his next appointment. In his mind's optic, Prowl could see Jazz making his way into the next cell and doing exactly what needed to be done. He could imagine with perfect clarity the closed off expression the saboteur wore like an incomplete mask, Only his optics were left exposed by the retracted visor No One had fractured.

It was in those optics that Prowl had seen a crack in the saboteur's mask. He had seen it the moment Blackarachnia had called Jazz a killer and he had not revelled in the title. Being a killer was only part of who Jazz was, and it was becoming a smaller part with every orn that passed. He was a killer no longer. The act that Jazz was performing now was no more an act of murder than it was the most profound act of compassion he had ever offered.

Of course, therein laid the crux of the issue.

Prowl could _feel_ the conflict radiating from his partner. It buzzed along his senses like a peculiar external awareness, causing his mind to race, calculate, and reevaluate a thousand things he thought he knew. Jazz was struggling. Struggling in his own way to reconcile the juxtaposition of an act he had been performing for a thousand lifetimes with the empathy required to perform it now in mercy. Thus far, Jazz had only ever seen compassion in the light of weakness. Now he was being forced to experience the depth of strength it required to be merciful in the most difficult of circumstances.

It was the very reason why Prowl had left the room. This was something Jazz needed to do on his own in order to know that he had the strength to do it.

Through the ajar door, the sounds of a second body being laid to rest signalled to Prowl that he was not needed. He moved on without a sound. He did not dare vocalize his discomfort. He did not dare distract Jazz from his current task. That did not stop him from being sore from so many displaced functions. Blackarachnia may have only been trying to protect herself, but she certainly caused a fair amount of harm in the process. Now that he could concentrate, Prowl began the process of logging his damages and shutting down neural receptors in affected areas.

He was not so foolish to think his internal damages were of no consequence. Much of his internal wiring that was indirectly connected to the operation of his arm had been loosening or displaced during the incident. If something was not done before he and Jazz left this place, the journey through back through the wasteland was likely to be Prowl's death.

He set his battle computer to consider the options while he cast the rest of his mind to staying alert during his trip back through Experimentation and Examination. A second tour through proved that once had not been disturbing enough. Prowl endeavoured not to look through any of the windows this time around. He did not want to know if there were any other inanimate parts lying around that had suddenly become animated in his absence.

Upon passing from Examination, Experimentation, and Holdings into the less ominous sounding Administration, Maintenance, and Record Keeping sections, Prowl suffered an inordinate sense of absolute relief. Even the appearance of the corridors was less horror vid inspired and more...scholarly inspired. Not quite welcoming, but remarkably less foreboding. The aesthetics remained firmly in the clean cut clinical realm, though noteably without the presence of dirt or grime or evidence of organic contamination. Air circulation proved better in this section; not entirely managing to dispel the stink of rot, though it was lessened to a degree as to be manageable. Even the overpowering sense of foreboding that had seemed to weigh so heavily over everything seemed to dissipate within the businesslike atmosphere of this section of the compound.

Prowl did not allow himself to be lulled into a false sense of comfort.

His guard remained up and his attention was infallibly sharp. Jazz's whispered words repeated quietly in his mind and kept him primed for any sign of trouble. The need to do so became even more acute as he passed through Administration and noted that one of the monitors was active. Upon approaching the active screen, Prowl could see the dim image of Holdings; Jazz was moving down the aisle to the fourth cell where several captives were pressed against the cage doors. Dark fluid drenched Jazz's front, dripping down his every curve and contour, dribbling to the floor and pooling in his footsteps. Though the image was faint, Prowl could see Jazz's grim expression and the weight of his granite resolve.

Not to be distracted by the activities of his partner, Prowl focused on the fact that someone had been watching them from this room. Lingering heat from the nearby chair indicated that their voyeur had not left this room too long ago. A quick scan for heat signatures did not turn up any conclusive evidence, being that the environment was too warm to detect a Cybertronian's lukewarm signature. A scan for a spark signature was likewise useless.

"So this is the game you would like to play?" Prowl murmured, cocking his blaster in his good hand. "Very well, I will play."

He exited Administration and was careful to keep his back to the wall while passing through Maintenance. The middle section was no more ominous than the first, though equipped for the maintenance of the compound rather than its administration. Its set up was inordinately orderly, each room's purpose neatly titled on its door: cleaning supplies, energon storage, organic supplements, medical tools... the rooms went on. Windows supplied a basic idea of the insides, which Prowl perused with a wary sweep. A single inactive drone was present in the corner of each room, none of which matched the silhouette of the bot who had shot him. He could detect no movement from anywhere around him; he heard no doors opening at his back, no footsteps suddenly dogging him in the hall.

Prowl was made to feel like he was very much alone in this section of the compound. So alone in the quiet that he could hear his own spark thumping a steady rhythm against the inside of his sparkcase. Despite all feelings to the contrary, he kept his guard up and optics open for any sign of his quarry.

Beyond Maintenance was Record Keeping, a blunt presence at the end of the corridor that manifested as a heavy door lacking in both lock and bars on the windows. Instead, there was the all-too-familiar placement of a trident-like design that gave Prowl a chill down his back.

"So we meet again," he greeted the seal. "I should have known our last meeting would not be the final one."

He had to fight the urge to blast acid straight into the face of the design. Despite the satisfaction it would have given him to destroy the symbol for the cult that had taken so much away from him, it would have defeated the purpose of stealth. Prowl passed through the doors and left the sigil for _Psi ex Machina_ behind him.

Record Keeping turned out to be the most impressive section of Shockwave's lair...or it would have been, were it full. Shelves lined the walls and stood in rows of perfect parallel symmetry. Each shelf had been obsessively scoured, removing all the hundreds, if not thousands, of data pads that once ate up space. Barren spaces on exposed walls where dust had yet to settle hinted the places where large diagrams would have hung. Several large standing hard drives took up space in the corners; the lights on them were dark and Prowl did not doubt that any information they contained was long removed by now.

Prowl did not have long to consider the length of time needed for the amount meticulous record keeping necessary to have filled this room. It was not distraction that was to be his downfall this time, but a rookie mistake in failing to make sure no one was hiding behind the door.

The sound of a gun cocking just behind his head alerted him to that very grave mistake.

"Hello, Prowl."

At the baritone ring of the bot's voice, Prowl shuttered his optics and nodded confirmation.

"Hello, Kingpin."

A soft huff of air breezed through the other bot's vents. A nudge to the back of Prowl's head by the muzzle of a charged blaster prompted him to turn around and face First of Five, his eldest brother, and the only one of his cadre to have turned Decepticon.

"You don't look surprised to see me," Kingpin noted with a cocked optic ridge.

"That is because I am not," Prowl replied, forcing himself with every last ounce of mental power he had to remain as neutral as possible. He let his gaze casually travel Kingpin's frame, noting that very little had changed since they had last seen each other; Kingpin was an outwardly handsome mech of intriguing design, obviously enhanced by the Decepticon accents that augmented his frame for war. His paint was a shade darker than Prowl's, closer to coal-black rather than storm-grey. The visor Prowl had mistaken for Jazz's was retracted, exposing Kingpin's sharp alignment of four optics – immensely sensitive, particularly to movement. The light that glared from them appeared off-white greyish to Prowl without his ability to discern the colour red, though he had no doubt his brother's optics burned Decepticon red like hot coals.

Betrayal and disgust left a bitter sting in Prowl's spark to see that Kingpin still wore his indigo chevron.

Kingpin raised a foot without breaking optic contact, kicking away Prowl's blaster. It skidded beyond the tactician's periphery, making it useless to him. He was immensely glad for Jazz's whispered warning in Holdings or else he would not have been prepared in the least for this reckoning. At least now, even disarmed, his mind was reeling with battle plans rather than surprise.

"Do you mind telling me who ruined the surprise?" first of five enquired evenly, as if he were not holding a gun to the head of his former colleague and supposed brother.

"Jazz was the one who figured it out," Prowl announced, inclining his head with forced civility.

"How...astute of him," Kingpin replied carefully.

"I will tender his apologies to you for ruining the surprise of this reunion."

The Decepticon frowned. "I don't see how he might have come to his conclusions. Jazz is clever, but not so clever as to know a bot he has never met."

"Then you underestimate a bot who far exceeds most normal expectations," Prowl countered, wanting to be smug but resisting. The barrel of the charged blaster aimed at his head was excellent incentive to keep himself in check.

"Do explain," his brother invited frigidly - coldness that could only come from someone operating without an active emotional centre.

Prowl complied to the demand. "I can only guess at his thought processes, but my best assumption is that he recognized you from your footprints. That is the only reasoning I can think of."

"That still does not explain how Jazz might have deduced a bot he has never met before," Kingpin pointed out.

"This is true," Prowl agreed. "Allow me to explain. As much as I dislike to claim commonality with you, we share identical core programming – as do Smokescreen and Hunter." He wisely chose not to mention the fifth member of their group. "I imagine that if any of us were to turn off our emotional centres, we would revert back to that core programming, including the manner of our walking gait." Prowl canted his chin in the air by a fraction. "Jazz is rather familiar with my mannerisms when my emotional centre is off. He saw your tracks and they clearly were not Hunter's nor Smokescreen's, and they certainly could not have been mine. By reasonable deduction, you were the only one left. Of course," he intoned in mock thoughtfulness, "this is only my hypothesis. You will need to ask Jazz for his exact process."

"I trust that your hypothesis is correct," Kingpin replied. "I must commend you for how much you have managed to exceed my expectations. I never expected either of you to come this far."

"I live to exceed expectations," Prowl rejoined dryly.

"Funny. I always supposed the opposite," Kingpin countered dismissively. He jerked the barrel of his gun as a means of indicating a specific direction. "Come, I know you are stalling – waiting for your _partner_-," he sneered the term, "to come rescue you. Let us have some privacy for this reunion, shall we? I imagine there is a lot we need to catch up on."

Prowl was forced to turn and march at the point of a gun toward the back of the room. A heavy door awaited them in the dark, sliding open into a pressure chamber and then further leading into a subterranean tunnel. Their journey was silent, except for the occasional tap of metal on metal as Kingpin guided Prowl with the muzzle of his gun. They finally exited topside a decent distance from Shockwave's labs, standing on the other side of the shielded compound. Far enough away to discount Jazz's aid in the near future.

In a bid of self-consciousness, Prowl clasped his good hand over his damaged arm. He was exposed out here; little cover to run to and even fewer options for weapons if it came to a fight. He was already handicapped and could not depend on Jazz coming to his rescue – at least not right away. His best option was to keep talking. Chances were he would learn some very interesting things about his estranged brother.

"So you are Shockwave's accomplice," he said, meeting Kingpin's sharp gaze.

"Indeed," nodded the Decepticon. "I suppose that is rather obvious by now."

A brief silence followed the easy confirmation.

Prowl frowned. "Now it is I who cannot fathom how that connection came about. You were programmed as a tactician, not a scientist. I saw what Shockwave was doing in his labs – none of that should be of any interest to you."

"You are correct," Kingpin agreed, matching Prowl's watchful stare. "I have no interest in science – at least...I have no interest in the execution of it. The results, however, are fascinating." The corner of his mouthplates eased up a fraction. "Like you, my forte is still numbers and statistics, which is of great use to someone like Shockwave. He needed someone to handle the dryer side of his operations, and only the very best would do. Obviously an ex-Simfurite tactical officer was the most logical choice. I have always been interested in arresting power for myself, so it was a rather perfect arrangement."

"I do recall your love for power," Prowl commented tightly. Admittedly, everyone had been ambitious in their precinct; it had been part of their programming to strive for efficiency, to strive to be the best. Every officer coveted the idea of being recognized for their efforts and rewarded with a promotion. Kingpin though...he had always been a little more ambitious than the others. A tad more ruthless to get to the top.

"It was likely to my advantage that we shared certain... shall we say 'ideological affiliations'?"

"_Psi ex Machina,_" Prowl spat venomously, his whole frame bristling.

"I see you remember them," Kingpin observed neutrally.

"I was in no trouble of forgetting them," Prowl replied heatedly. "You dare become one of them? After what they did? Knowing _everything_ they have done? That is low, even for you!"

An optic ridge arched. "You still hold that foolish grudge against them?"

"There are no words to encompass my loathing for the organization and all those who associate with it." There was no mistaking who the loathing was meant for in that moment.

Kingpin leaned back on his heels, reassessing fourth of five. "You speak in an extremely emotionally charged manner. I find that odd. Do your emotions still get the better of you? If you had agreed to join them in the first place, you emotions would no longer be a problem. They would have fixed you. That accident-."

"It was no accident and you know it!"

Kingpin relented with a shake of his head. "No one had to die, Prowl. If your emotions had not gotten in the way..." He left the possibility hanging in the air like aerosolized poison.

Prowl clenched the fist of his good hand until the metal screeched. "No matter the promises they made, they were lies. No one can simply delete emotion once it is learned."

"Are you so sure about that?" Those four ruby optics blinked slowly, one at a time in order to always have one optic on Prowl. "You saw what extraordinary things Shockwave is capable of; he is capable of much more. So much more. I have never encountered his equal in ability before. He is the epitome of the _Machina."_

"You are blind, Kingpin. He is the epitome of madness."

"If this is madness, so be it."

Prowl withdrew, optics narrowing. Suspicion lanced through him, followed by the taint of horror.

"You let him do it to you, didn't you?" he breathed. "You let Shockwave take away your emotions."

Kingpin nodded slowly, purposefully. "I let him, and I do not regret it. The world has never been so clear to me as it is now. I am as free as the orn I was brought online."

"Are you as ignorant as you were on that orn as well?" Prowl spat. "True strength does not lie in ridding ourselves of that which weakens us. It rests in embracing that which frightens us, being the master of it. I know that now." Inexplicably, a flash of Jazz's faceplate appeared in his mind as he spoke.

"You sound every bit the self-righteous Autobot that you think you are," Kingpin sighed. "What logic is this? Embracing that which weakens you? There is no strength afforded by emotion. We are machines, Prowl. We are meant for greater things than meaningless emotion. There is power in a world where we are all our own masters; we rule our sparks, not the other way around. _Psi ex Machina_ can give you what you have always wanted – Shockwave can give you freedom. He can give you power. You never have to feel again. Join us and you will want for nothing."

Prowl shuttered his optics tight. "I would be lying if I said I wasn't tempted."

A hand was extended to him. "Then come with me. I can take you to Shockwave. You, Prowl, would be an amazing asset to us."

"I said I was tempted - I did not indicate I was completely stupid. I will have to decline your offer," Prowl replied, slapping the offered hand away. "My emotions and I are comfortable where we are. Unlike you, I have not forgotten the difference between right and wrong. I will not abandon who I am for the sake of power."

Before Kingpin had the chance to shoot him in the head, Prowl dove forward, using his head to ram his brother in the throat and throw him backwards. They toppled over one another clumsily. Several plasma blasts went off, one of them searing past Prowl's cheek and blinding him from the brightness. A second shot landed its mark in his side, burning the armour straight through from the potency of such a close-range attack. Prowl howled, investing the sudden pain into the fervour of his attack. He stood no chance against Kingpin, who was still fresh and undamaged, but at least he could give Jazz more time to prepare or do whatever it was he was doing before Kingpin had a chance to go after him.

The world around them whirled over and over as they rolled together. From the blurred periphery, Prowl saw a figure approaching. Rust-coloured. Perhaps Jazz covered in the experiments' fluids. But the bot was approaching from the wrong direction. Closer still, the bot was too big to be Jazz. A scout's frame, large and rugged. He was running full tilt, arms waving. Something was being shouted.

Suddenly Prowl was swept up into the newcomer's arms, being yanked away from the fight. He struggled still, despite the scream that started up in his head as his pressure sensor grid objected violently to the pressures it was being subjected to. Lists scrolled down his vision announcing the thousands of things that were going wrong in that astrosecond. Prowl ignored them as he continued to kick, claw, punch, and writhe – doing whatever he could to fight this new attacker.

"Fine! Fine! Be that way!" crowed the newcomer.

Prowl was jarred violently when his frame was thrust to the ground so hard he bounced. His vision blinked out for an agonizing astrosecond, fizzling back to full function to give Prowl the uninhibited sight of Kingpin thrashing across the snow-dusted ground with none other than Hunter laying into him with violent intention. Hands around their eldest brother's throat, Hunter proceeded to throttle Kingpin by smashing his head into the ground and punctuating each attack with a declaration.

"You. Stupid. Fragging. Piece. Of. Scum!"

As far as declarations went, it wasn't the most inventive. Prowl had to give Hunter points for delivery, though. He especially had to award points for timing. Very good timing.

Kingpin snarled violently, optics flashing. He lashed out with the sharpened blades that extended from the sides of his lower arm. Sparks flew in the cold air as Hunter took the full force of it. Deep gouges appeared across his chest. The scout spat his own acidic retort, the words lost in the sounds of battle as he re-engaged his brother. He was bigger than Kingpin, stronger, and viscerally intent on wreaking as much damage as he could manage. But there was a fatal flaw in the sudden attack based on rage alone, and Hunter should have known that; he wasn't using his head. Prowl could see it with painful clarity, and he knew Kingpin could too.

"Hunter, get out of there!" Prowl bellowed. "Stop! You have to stop!"

Kingpin cast him a sidelong glance that lasted too long, time slowing for the exchange. The look in the Decepticon's optics was knowing, sly... _lethal_. His arm raised, and Prowl could see that first of five still had his compact plasma blaster clutched in his fist.

Before Prowl had that chance to scream, a single shot rang out in the crisp air.

Hunter jerked back, blue optics wide. His chin dropped to stare down at the blackened hole that had appeared in his lower abdomen. One of his energon reserves was clearly punctured, evidenced by the sudden violent tide of energon spilling down his front and soaking into the snow.

"You have got to be kidding me!" Hunter exclaimed.

"I will deal with you later," Kingpin replied, kicking the squirming remains of second of five away, jerking to his feet. He regarded Prowl with narrowed optics. "That was unexpected, don't you think?"

Prowl had no words for the other bot. A thousand things wanted to fly from his mouthplates at once, but not a single word escaped. He was shaking, enraged, and so agonizingly impotent to do anything. There was no point in running when the blaster was pointed at his head again.

"Shall we try this a second time?"

_"Oh no ya don't!"_ crowed a furiously and gloriously familiar accented voice.

A piercing whistle cut through the air, followed by Kingpin's scream as a dagger embedded itself through his right set of optics. He tumbled backwards, hands clutching his faceplates as energon bloomed in every direction.

Prowl felt unimaginable relief to suddenly be tripped over by a silver bot running too fast to stop in time. Jazz hit the ground and was up again an astrosecond later. White optics shone bright like panicked beacons. Silver hands clutched at the sides of Prowl's head and was turning him in every direction to check for fatal wounds.

"Are ya okay? Ah heard the shot on mah way over. Did he get ya? Are ya hurt?"

"Hunter," Prowl grunted, jerking his head toward his downed brother. "He shot Hunter. You stopped him before he could get me."

Jazz's mouthplates hardened, spying fresh damages wherever he looked. "Certainly looks like he got ya."

"We fought before Hunter came."

"At least ya put up a fight," Jazz sighed. "Didn't Ah tell ya ta be careful? Isn't that what you're always telling meh? Be careful! Be careful! The one time Ah ask ya ta be careful, ya go off an' almost get yourself killed. See? This is why Ah've always worked alone. Partners just go off and get themselves killed without meh lookin' out for them!"

Discovering Prowl missing must have really shaken Jazz, because his accent was turning thicker with every word he spoke. It was more pronounced than Prowl had ever heard it before. If it got any thicker, he would be rambling in pure Kev and Prowl would have no clue what was being said. Not to mention the hands that held Prowl were shaking. Shaking so badly from fear and so many other things.

Prowl attempted to shoo Jazz away with his good hand. "Jazz, I-"

"Your time would be better off looking out for yourself," intoned a voice, just as Prowl and Jazz realized Kingpin was not as down as they thought. A plasma shot went off. Jazz reacted automatically, flinging his last blade blindly. Someone screeched loudly. There was a whirl of rust-coloured paint before Prowl and Jazz were bowled over by an impossibly heavy weight.

In the aftermath, Hunter laid on top of them. A new hole opened up in the center of his chest, the strobe effect of his exposed beating spark lighting the wound up garishly.

Prowl was scrambling, both physically and mentally. "Hunter? Hunter! Don't you die on me! Don't you dare die on me!"

Jazz shrugged out from under the scout's weight, spying Kingpin's unmoving frame. His blade had found purchase in the center of the Decepticon's forehead. The look he had died with was one of surprise. Not to waste his daggers, Jazz took them each back with an ungentle yank and tucked them away into their sheaths. He gave the frame a mean kick. The processor was destroyed with no hope of extracting useful information, but he deemed the sacrifice worth it. This sort of killing didn't bother him at all.

"Kingpin is dead," the saboteur announced.

"Good. I n-never did like him anyways," Hunter gasped weakly, shaking uncontrollably. Too much energon had leaked out through his ruptured tank. An exposed spark was just adding fuel to the fire.

Prowl was shuddering, gasping for air through his suddenly too-small vents, trying everything he could think of to stem the leakage, cover Hunter's spark. He just lost one brother. He was not about to lose another!

Jazz crouched neared Hunter's head, staring down at the scout to gauge him. "Ah thought ya were the Decepticon. Thought you were the one who betrayed us."

"I should b-be insulted," Hunter rasped, almost wry if not for the oncoming darkness looming in his optics. "I-I'm not. B-bots I contacted in K-Kaon...double-crossed..."

"Stop!" Prowl commanded. "Stop talking right now. Conserve your energy!"

Jazz cast the tactician a pitying look before turning back to Hunter. "How did ya find us?"

The corners of Hunter's mouthplates turned up into a sparkbreaking smile. There was pride and love and sadness in those wavering blue optics. "Prowl h-had faith... in me. A _t-true_ brother. H-he knew... I would try to -to follow. Made sure I c-could always find you..."

He opened his fist, letting a tiny tracker fall to the snow. It was the very same tracker Jazz had given Prowl what seemed like a very long time ago.

Hunter chuckled brokenly at Jazz's stunned expression, the soft noise trailing off as the light of his optics faded and he stopped moving all together.


	39. Chapter 39

Holy crap, does this mean that if I kill off characters in highly dramatic and emotional ways, reviewers will come out of the woodwork? Man, I gotta write me up a list of people I'm gonna kill! 8D I'm kidding! I'm kidding! ...mostly. I already know who I'm going to kill. ^_^

Besides that, thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! Oh my god! The last chapter was the most reviewed chapter in the history of this story! I love you all so much for your loyalty, enthusiasm, and just plain craziness when you review and make my day a thousand times better than it was before! Thank you so much to **shantastic, Taimat1972, Wanderling, VyxenSkye, IBrokeThe4ThWall, Alathea2, MoonWallker, Camfield, Katea-Nui, White Aster, femme4jack, VaRa129, Jenn, Alice, Prowls-little-angel, Guest, Guest, poiseninja, SunlightOnTheWater, RamenNoodlesXD, Gamemice, ReveilleWolfie, abarai-san, NarnianOpal, RedStarBloom, Fianna9, Cybela, Qwertzu, Guest, DemonSurfer, Daklog73, Sideslip, Peacewish, blueShadow, Chistaepx, Ano-Hitori-Chichi, The VastraNarada, Faecat, Astsadi, Stargazer at Moonlight, Wisecrack Idiots, Field Empathy, aradow, quasarsmom, Rae, SweetIndigo, Whiteinu1, Imbri of the Moon, Optimus Bob, SwedishDragon, evilbunny777, cmdrtekk, Xenophobic Doll, Jamie, Nikkie2010, Randomstrike, JenEvan, StarscreamII, Kemmasandi, Move-2-da-beat-femme, electro moonlight, Guest, and XlizardQueenX. ***Whew* That is quite the list! Pieces of my heart belong to each of you!

**Chapter 39**

Hunter's blank optics stared upward without accusation. There was a self-satisfied smile on his faceplate, as if confounding Jazz and Prowl was the perfect last act for him.

Prowl was not sure how he was supposed to feel about it.

Physically, there was not a place on his frame which did not hurt in some capacity. This throbbing manifesting through his pressure sensor grid was not the right kind of pain he knew he was suppose to feel at this very moment. Where was the agony over his sudden loss? There was shocking emptiness inside of him where he thought he was supposed to feel something. A hollow echoing that went on forever inside his head. Prowl stared down at the unmoving frame braced in his lap and he could not force himself to feel anything.

The irony of his sudden inability did not escape him.

As he drew a quivering hand down the side of Hunter's slack faceplate, Prowl found no comfort in the absence of immediate grief. It would come soon, as would every other blackened emotion Prowl possessed. Like the dreaded astroseconds of anticipation between the moment his emotional centre was turned on and waiting for the backlash to hit, Prowl could only brace himself with a grim expectancy for the storm to hit.

"This is not your fault," Jazz suddenly intoned, cringing at the sound of his own voice. It was rasping and cracking, far from the comforting tone he had attempted. There were too many shadows in Prowl's optics, opening up into the bruised empty places that shock had inspired. Yawning dark chasms just waiting to be filled. Blame was creeping in on the rising gloom, criticism and self-hatred no doubt gnawing on its heels. The oncoming fallout was likely to be more than what Jazz could handle in his own disturbed state.

"Not my fault?" Prowl enquired hollowly. "How can it not be?"

"Hunter came here of his own freewill," the saboteur reasoned, touching Prowl's knee. "He did what he did because he..."

There was echoing silence as his voice trailed off.

Prowl raised his optics, watching his partner with so much stirring behind his optics as floodgates threatened to spill over into madness.

"He loved ya, Prowler," Jazz murmured, shockingly aware that it was the first time in his life that he had ever said those words, in that order, meant to comfort someone in pain rather than taunt them. "Ya heard him say he would have tried ta follow on his own. That's how much he cared about ya."

"I gave him the tracer. I am the one who ensured he would die here," Prowl replied, his vocal processor cracking. His shoulders jerked as air shuddered through his vents. "He would not be dead if it were not for me."

"Kingpin is the one who raised a blaster ta him." Jazz raised his hands to take his partner's faceplate into his palms, cradling Prowl's head with a firm but gentle grip. "Prowl, ya had no way of knowing what would happen here. What ya did with that tracer, ya did because ya believed in him. Ya trusted him and loved him enough to believe he was still an Autobot, and he proved you right."

At the mentioning of love, there came a flash from deep down in Prowl's optics.

Jazz dared the smallest of smiles. "Yeah, ya loved him. Ah might not be too familiar with that particular kind of nonsense, but Ah don't know what else ta call it when ya care for someone and do things for them beyond personal gain and self-preservation. Ya cared enough for Hunter to overlook the logic of his presence in Centaurie Tetrax, and look what he did. He came here and he saved your life."

"He saved my life at the cost of two others," Prowl countered brokenly, for the first time letting his optics settle on Kingpin's abandoned frame. The emptiness inside him churned, cracks appearing in the wall of shock to allow the spurn of anger and bitterness spill inside him. He welcomed the oncoming internal pain like a well deserved punishment.

"That's life sometimes," Jazz said with a shake of his head. "Ya know we can't always save everyone."

Prowl shuttered his optics, bowing his head until his chevron touched Hunter's. "It is... an inefficient waste to have lost two lives."

The saboteur looked away, affected more than he wished to reveal lest he make Prowl's situation worse by proxy. "Kingpin ain't a waste. He would have killed ya, Prowl. Ah'm not sorry Ah put a blade through his head."

The words were like a slap, sharper still for all the truth in them.

Prowl's mind grasped frantically for stability, loosening its holds on the threads of logicality to grip even tighter to baser things that had taken root in his spark and held on like a festering disease. Things like blind loyalty. Stupid love.

"He was still..."

"Your brother? Prowl, think about it. He just tried ta kill ya," Jazz countered with a harsh snort. "Why claim he's your brother now when you've spent most of your life claiming the rest of your cadre are just work associates? Kingpin was no more your brother than Ah am Mirage's lover."

Instead of getting the levity he might have hoped for, Jazz miscalculated. There was a brief flash in Prowl's optics, an agonized realization, followed by a deepening scowl that seemed to test the durability of the tactician's jaw joints. Slowly, like a creeping glacier shoring its way through his insides, the immense pressure of his loss was building. His mouthplates drew into a firm line, vocal processor tightening as the need to vocalize his loss burned down the neural wires. He shuddered, frame creaking as his injured arms tightened fractions around the corpse he embraced. Hunter's head lulled to the side, optics dark and reflective like empty shards of glass.

Jazz fell back onto his aft with a frown, watching his partner cautiously. He was running out of ideas to help him sort through the oncoming tide. In his current physical condition, Jazz wasn't sure how well Prowl would shore up under the brunt. The last thing he wanted to try was syphoning off the excess emotion. Prowl was too mentally powerful on a good day. Something as emotionally traumatizing as having two brothers murdered together was likely enough to burn out Jazz's capacity, putting him out of commission and placing them both in serious danger.

"Ah don't know what ta do," he admitted, tasting bitterness on his mouthplates with every word that fell.

"Neither do I," Prowl replied so quietly that it was nearly lost in the sounds of his creaking frame.

Desperate for the solidity of something under his hands, Jazz let his cracked claws stroke along one of Hunter's massive arms. So much strength built into one frame. Wonderfully thick armour, housing a spark that Jazz could see clearly in hindsight was loving and loyal – two qualities that were no longer as much the weaknesses he might have once considered them. The coolness of the metal felt surreal beneath his palms. His armour prickled with the notice of Prowl's barely contained energy; he could read the thousands of different ways the tactician was hurting, but he did not know of a single way to take the pain away. The knowledge itself caused Jazz his own personal agony in failure.

From overhead, the massive glacier creaked and groaned its haunting call before buckling under its own weight to release sheet after sheet of ice and frozen grey-yellow debris. White sparks exploded across the force field, flaring and flickering in rapid succession as frozen material was vaporized into ghostly trails of steam. The echoing groan of the glacier carried on down the gorge long after the steam blew away.

In the stillness that followed, it was the thought of how alone they were in the vast emptiness of the southern pole region that weighed heavily on Prowl and Jazz.

"Do ya want meh ta take him away?" Jazz asked quietly, staring at Hunter's empty frame.

"Not yet," Prowl replied tightly. He shifted, the backs of his battered knuckles gently stroking the side of Hunter's faceplate in a gentleness he had rarely shown when the scout lived. "I realize that it is only a matter of time before my emotions get out of hand. If I start to become... unmanageable, you have my permission to knock me out."

"Ah..." The objection died in the air between them. Jazz cast his gaze to the snow-dusted ground, his mouthplates falling into a solemn line. "Yeah, alright."

Prowl relaxed a fraction, trusting his partner to do what was right.

Jazz would do the right thing, though he wouldn't enjoy it. He had hit his quota of doing the right thing several good deeds ago and now he was sick with the excess.

Trying to give Prowl the time he needed, however long that happened to be, Jazz returned his attention to Hunter's frame to try to take the dead mech's measure. It was infinitely harder to see into a bot when they were dead. Whereas the living were like open books and their optics shining like a mirror of their sparks, the dead were... empty. It was a metal frame, vacated of its life and stories, as inanimate as the orn it was manufactured. Reading the dead had never been a skill Jazz considered worthy of himself when his time was better spent stripping a frame for valuable parts and mining the mind for information. It was still an unworthy skill, but one that Jazz regretted he had not perfected. With it, Jazz might have been able to offer Prowl some kind of peace of mind in Hunter's death.

The saboteur was not sure how long he spent staring at the frame while Prowl slowly broke down, but instead of seeing the answer to an unanswerable question, Jazz saw something quite different in that rust-coloured corpse.

An interested hum vibrated the still air. Jazz's hands, which had fallen stationary, began wandering the scout's frame with renewed interest.

Prowl tensed, drawing his brother's frame closer to himself in a gesture that was was out of character for him to be so possessive.

"Ah'm not gonna take him away," Jazz assured, fingers travelling along off-orange lines of armour. Something caught on the cracks of his damaged claws.

"What do you think you are doing?" Prowl enquired sharply.

"Ah don't know yet," Jazz replied, scratching at the unseen catch until the adhesive failed and something came free from its crevice under Hunter's gigantic chestplate. He turned his hand over to inspect his prize, finding a still-active dampener sitting so innocently in his palm. The corners of the saboteur's mouthplates turned up in a bemused half-smile.

"Is that...?" Prowl dared to wonder.

"Ah knew there was something odd about the corpse. Too... surreal, Ah guess," Jazz intoned, switching the miniature device off. There was a stunning moment as their resonance scanners refreshed, failing to register each others spark signatures while they remained hidden beneath the impenetrable machinations Jazz had impressed on them, though they did pick up a single weak signature from between them.

A sudden laugh escaped the saboteur before he could censor himself.

"He's alive," Prowl breathed, caught somewhere between shock and incomprehension. The inner workings of his mind were nearly visible as thought processes came to a sudden crashing halt, desperately backpedalling to catch up with the new information flooding his sensors. His pale optics shot to Jazz, barely able to comprehend the laughing grin that now split his partner's features.

Jazz laughed again, finding it hard to help himself. He threw back his head with one of his rare handsome laughs, crushing Hunter's damper between his fingers with absolute relish.

"Hold him still," the silver mech commanded, though still with a devious grin lighting his grimy faceplate. "He's weak and still fading. Ah'm gonna give his spark a little jump start ta keep it from fading, but he might spasm."

"I have him," Prowl assured, manoeuvring himself so that he could best brace his brother. Though he was injured himself, he hardly thought his wounds were of concern in this very instance. He did not bother to disguise his eagerness as he said, "Do what you have to do."

Jazz rose up on his knees, bracing one hand to Hunter's shoulder and laying the other atop the darkened hole that led down into the sparkcase that was not as empty as they had first suspected. The spark was so weak that its glow was practically negligible. Jazz pressed down on the armour as hard as he dared, until he could feel the lightest touch of pulsing energy against his palm.

"So this is either gonna save his life or kill him. Here goes nothing!"

A brief magnetic burst charged the air, followed nearly instantaneously by Hunter's frame giving a sudden violent lurch as every vent opened up and sucked in a tremendous gush of air. Royal blue optics flared back to life, and a strong pulse of blue light flashed brilliantly from within the hidden sparkcase. Prowl held on tightly as the scout's systems scrambled to reinitialize failing processes, causing his limbs to spasm randomly and his spinal column to bow.

Jazz laughed again as a startled and breathless noise. First he had killed for mercy, and now he was bringing bots back from the brink of death? This orn was full of new things for him! He kept his hand over Hunter's chest, supplying a steady magnetic rhythm for the fragile spark underneath to follow until it was stable enough for him to pull away. It was not the first time that a spark had touched his stained hands, though the occasion was arguably more joyous than all others that had come before. Blue light leaked from between his trembling fingers, shining brighter and stronger with each steadying pulse.

"Hunter? Hunter!" Prowl called, searching for any reaction. "Second of Five, can you hear me?"

"Give him a moment," Jazz breathed. "He just came back from the almost dead. His audios might not be reinitialized yet."

Prowl settled back, though he could not disguise the eagerness lighting his optics.

Before Hunter's spark became stable on its own, his wits returned enough to take in his surroundings. Weary blue optics came into focus, first panicked as his last memories replayed in his mind, and then calming as he realized the danger had passed. His gaze came to settle on the intimidating sight of Jazz looming over him, caught in a very compromising position by Cybertronian standards. It was not exactly commonplace to come online with a stranger you barely know touching your spark in any way, shape, or form. Especially a stranger who, by most reliable forms of gossip, was banging your brother. One burnt orange optic ridge arched incredulously.

"Did I... miss something?" he wondered in a voice that sounded as if it had been dragged over gravel and then set on fire.

"Depends on your definition of missing something," Jazz replied, mirroring the arch of Hunter's optic ridge as if not to be outdone.

"Define it for me."

"Ah just saved your life," the saboteur informed, easing his hand away slowly in case Hunter showed signs of distress without a magnetic pulse keeping his spark even.

Hunter groaned, feeling discomfort as his spark wavered. He was divided between the living essence of his spark syphoning his consciousness into that little ball of energy, and the larger entity of his frame holding on to his spark with the desperate intention to live. His spark settled where it was, still partially disconnected from his frame and haemorrhaging energy to the free air, but determined to hold on.

"I'm gonna owe you, aren't I?" he complained hoarsely, softening the accusation with an attempted smirk.

Jazz shot Prowl an amused glance before shrugging. "Ya saved mah partner, so Ah'll consider it even."

Hunter snorted, only to regret it when the world started spinning and looking like there was a dozen of everything. Had there been enough energon left in his reserves, he might have purged.

"You're still very weak," Prowl chastised as his hand moved to replace Jazz's, acting as a plug to keep the cold air out. "You took the shot meant for me, Hunter. It pierced your sparkcase. Save your energy as much as you can."

"Yeah," the scout grunted, looking down. "I thought things were a little more ventilated in that area than I remembered."

"Please don't joke," Prowl pleaded. "I thought you had died."

"Don't worry, I feel like I died."

Despite himself, Prowl breathed a quiet laugh as he shook his head. "I was too distracted to have noticed you had no spark signature before you were shot, and then Kingpin shot you. I was too..._distraught_ to think that I had lost two brothers in a single moment. It did not occur to me that you would be wearing a dampener." He held Hunter a fraction closer, closer than he had ever botherd to willingly hold any of his cadre. "I highly doubt Smokescreen would forgive me for losing you."

There was a long pause as Hunter simply laid there, cycling air in and out of his vents as if trying to gather strength to speak again. His head lolled back to reveal a weak half-smile. "He would forgive you, 'cause it wouldn't have been your fault. Me, on the hand, Smokey be happy to blame me for dying. I still owe him a couple cubes of high-grade, you know?"

"I said don't joke!" Prowl admonished.

"Okay, no more jokes. I'll be serious now," Hunter yielded, patting his brother on the hand. "Good thing you found the dampener or I really would be dead. Those things should come with warning labels – if the shot doesn't kill you, your friends thinking you're dead probably will."

"What did I say about joking!" Prowl exclaimed, sounding increasingly distressed. "And besides, Jazz found it."

"Same difference."

"Hardly," Jazz snorted.

Hunter rolled his optics, one of the few things he could do without discomfort or accidentally setting off a new bout of spasms. He shuttered his optics and laid quietly in Prowl's arms for several minutes, his faceplate flickering with an array of expressions – both voluntary and other. Being angled as he was, his ruptured reservoir tank was able to drain even more, though the last dregs of the fluid to slowly make its way out was sluggish and greyish-blue. Prowl drew his injured arm up and let his fingers rest against Hunter's faceplate, stroking along the strong lines with obvious restrained affection.

"Your hand is shaking," the scout murmured.

"I imagine it would be," Prowl replied wryly. "I am very relieved that you are alive."

The hand atop of Hunter's chest was joined by Hunter's own hand, the knuckles dripping sluggishly with energon. They shared a gentle squeeze, Hunter being far more comfortable with the affectionate gesture than Prowl was. Though the light of the scout's optics was flickering, the expression within was lively and full of warmth.

"It figures," Hunter chuckled, barely able to shake his head.

"What figures?" Prowl wondered.

"That I would have to almost die in order to get a hug out of you," Hunter riposted, laughing roughly at Prowl's sudden incredulous expression. Despite his aches and pains, there were some things too funny not to laugh at. Even Jazz, who had snuck away from the intimate moment between brothers, dared to snort.

"You should not expend yourself unnecessarily," Prowl scolded in a flustered tone. "Jazz, where are you? What are you doing to that frame? Please, come help. Hunter, I said stop laughing!"

Hunter failed to heed the order.

Jazz paid his partner a little more attention, casting Prowl a nod before digging his hands into a small crevice on Kingpin's frame and jerking up the largest section of chestplate. "What does it look like Ah'm doing?" he said, now in the process of jimmying the armour plate away from the heavy duty bolts anchoring it.

"It looks like you are desecrating the dead," Prowl observed tightly. "You would be more help over here bringing a belligerent injured mech to heel before he forces his spark to extinguish!"

"He's fine, Prowler. Right now, Ah'm busy cannibalizing your evil brother ta save the sort of decent one." He then cast an arch look down to Hunter, who was in the process of calming down. "Ah haven't forgotten that idiot comment in Tyger Pax. When Ah attach this plate ta ya, Ah'm gonna make it hurt."

"No, you won't," Prowl countered.

Jazz arched an optic ridge, and then shrugged when the issue wasn't worth bantering over. He returned to extracting useful parts from the corpse.

Hunter gave another huffed laugh, shaking from either involuntary spasms or true humour. The laughter had been enough to drain him, so he now settled comfortably into Prowl's lap and waited for something to be done.

Prowl made himself busy by cataloguing damages and calculating the best forms of field repair he and Jazz could attempt to get Hunter out of this wretched place – hopefully in one piece. He was ultimately distracted by the remaining excess of emotion still built up in his head. It had not been negated as he would have hoped with the introduction of positive emotion. Rather, they now played a precarious balancing act in his mind, as divided as his battle computer was from his main consciousness... but, unfortunately, less evenly matched than the construction of his consciousness. He was too inclined toward negative emotions; it was rare that the positive ever outweighed the negative.

"Alright, Ah've got what Ah need here. Just call meh the Doctor of Doom," Jazz announced a short while later. At his feet, he had sorted out piles of armour, bolts, hinges, lenses, and any other valuable frame part he could find. Weapons were in another pile that Jazz no doubt meant to horde for himself. What was left of Kingpin was a mangled mess which the saboteur had the decency to try to hide behind his legs – though it was a wasted effort. In his hands was Kingpin's visor being twirled around and around through his clever fingers.

"Hunter doesn't have a visor," Prowl pointed out.

"But Ah do, and mine's cracked," Jazz replied, popping out his damaged visor and jiggling the new one into place. It was the wrong model for his frame type, so the size and shape were off and the locks protested the foreign object being shoved into them. The light was not as bright as usual through this new visor. "How do Ah look?"

"Asymmetrical," Prowl reported with a scowl. "Take it off."

"Let him have it," Hunter countered. "Kingpin's not using it."

Prowl pressed his mouthplates together, wanting to say more about it but resisting. Anything to come out of his mouthplates would likely be fuelled by the illogical attachment to a mech who, only breems before, had been ready to execute him.

From behind that crystal visor, Jazz could see all too clearly that Prowl was not as calm as he would have liked to be. There was struggle in the tactician's optics. Not wanting to create more strife, the saboteur slid his asymmetrical visor from his faceplate and tucked it away into subspace.

When Prowl arched an optic ridge, Jazz shrugged. "It wasn't mah style anyways. Ah'll replace mah visor when we get home."

"Oh sure, it wasn't your style. That's exactly the reason," Hunter snorted, but then hissed when a silver foot rammed into his leg.

"Ya want meh ta patch ya up or not?"

"That depends," Hunter grunted. "Are you going to kick me again?"

Jazz crossed his arms stubbornly. "Probably. Ya got any other issues?"

"Are you the one that patched up Prowl's shoulder?" the scout wondered, turning an arched look at the mangled mess that was Prowl's damaged shoulder. It had been shot, patched, twisted, nearly dismembered, covered in organic debris, and further damaged by fighting with Kingpin. It looked like a blind, armless demolitions bot had attempted his hand at field repairs, rather than the highly skilled saboteur Jazz claimed to be.

The white-hot glare Jazz shot the downed scout was answer enough.

"Let him patch you up so we can get out of here," Prowl insisted tiredly, followed by a long sigh that turned to wisps of white vapour around his vents. "The sooner we leave this place, the better. I have had enough of the poles to last a lifetime."

"Fine, fine, patch me up," Hunter huffed, and then pointed a warning finger at Jazz. "But if you kill me, I'll come back and haunt you."

"Ya have no idea how much that is a distinct possibility around here," Jazz drawled, dropping to his knees along Hunter's side and laying Kingpin's dark armour over the warm rusty orange of the scout's chest. Prowl and Hunter's hands fell away underneath, and thankfully no one's spark extinguished in the process. "You're not gonna have some kind of crisis of identity or some slag like that if Ah start welding pieces of your dead brother ta your frame, are ya?"

"Pit no," the scout snorted. "He's dead and gone, but at least his frame will be of some use. Ah got no problem enjoying the irony of using pieces of a bot that wanted to kill me to keep me alive. Serves him right."

Prowl flinched and looked away.

"Ah'm glad we have that settled, then," Jazz declared. "No sudden moves, ya got that? Don't give meh any reason ta waver while Ah'm welding."

"Oh yeah, sure, I'll try to resist that raging urge to dance around while my life hangs in the balance," Hunter replied dryly, garnering very little laughter from his dry humour. The arms that held him tightened by a fraction. Shifting his expression to something more serious, Hunter met Jazz's gaze and gestured to his ruptured abdomen. "I got one other problem, besides the dancing. I don't know if you noticed, but I'm gonna need a new reservoir, too. You can patch up my sparkcase as much as you want, but it won't help anything if I don't have the energy to support the rest of my systems."

Jazz paused, pursing his mouthplates as he thought about it. "Ah pulled out Kingpin's reservoir – ya can use that one until ya can be treated by a real medic."

"And energon? Is there enough in the frame for me to use?"

"No, most of it drained out when Ah was harvesting parts." Jazz regarded Prowl with a measuring look. "Ya think ya can walk?"

"Yes, I should be able to," the tactician nodded. "Do you want me to go get more energon for him while you work?"

"If you're feeling up ta it," Jazz reasoned. "Go ta the generator room we were first in. The faster ya get the energon, the sooner we can get out of this place."

As Prowl eased out from underneath Hunter, Jazz rose with him. They stepped away from their unexpected saviour, who cast them a pointed look before slowly letting his optics wander elsewhere. Without energon to sustain his systems, and the energy of his spark basically bleeding out through the hole in his chest, he was tired. It was a struggle to stay online. Prowl kept his sensors locked on the mech in case his condition took a turn for the worse.

"He's gonna be okay," Jazz murmured, laying a careful hand to Prowl's undamaged shoulder.

"The chances of him surviving are not in his favour," Prowl countered in a similarly hushed tone. "Perhaps if it was just a ruptured reservoir, he might easily walk away from this, but he has an exposed spark. You are no medic – you cannot patch a sparkcase without damaging the spark. Even if you patch the external armour, his spark will still be bleeding out into the frame. Unless he managed to land a ship nearby, if we expose him to the elements beyond the shielding for long enough, he could still die."

"There's no such thing as optimism with ya, is there?"

Wordlessly, Prowl glared.

Jazz scrubbed a hand over his faceplate. "Ah'm gonna do mah best with Hunter, Ah promise. When ya go get the energon, Ah want ya ta do something else for meh."

Wariness crept over the tactician's grimy features, followed by tiredness and resignation. "What is it you want me to do?"

In all seriousness, the saboteur said, "Turn off your emotional centre."

Dark optic ridges shot high on the tactician's forehead. That was the _last_ thing he had been expecting.

"Ah mean it. Turn it off," Jazz insisted.

"If I do that now, the backlash when I do turn it back on will be painful," Prowl warned, shooting a careful look toward Hunter to make sure he was not eavesdropping. "It is counterproductive to turn it off, especially with all the work I have put into mastering my condition. Are you saying I am not strong enough to handle it?"

"Ah'm not saying that at all," Jazz rushed to assure. "You're suffering right now. Ah can see it."

"I will work my way through it without relying on damaging shortcuts."

"Ah don't need ya being on a hair-trigger right now while we're in the middle of Crazy Town," Jazz hissed. "Ya got one bot dead, the other on death's doorstep, and we're about ta go back out inta an EM storm that, if ya recall, was not very fun the first time around. Ah need ya in top form, and if that means turning off your emotional centre, then so be it."

Prowl shifted back defensively, one hand curling into a loose fist. "And if I turn off my emotional centre? I will be no better than Kingpin, throwing away my emotions to make myself more efficient. I will be like Shockwave and every other member of the _Psi ex Machina_."

"Ya will _never_ be like them, Prowl," Jazz rushed to assure. "Ah don't know what went on between you and the _Machina_, but Ah do know that ya have more honour and dignity than that cult has ever known. It _kills_ meh ta ask ya turn off your emotional centre-."

"Then _don't_ ask me."

"Ah have ta."

Prowl shuttered his optics, shoulders dropping as scattered logic circuits started asserting themselves. He was currently weak in both physical and mental capacities. One he could not fix. One he could. Logic would dictate that he do whatever possible to increase his chances of survival.

Jazz saw the beginnings of weakness and pressed his advantage. "Ah promise Ah will help ya turn it back on when we get out of this mess. Ah'll syphon off excess emotion or act as a buffer... whatever ya need, Ah promise ta give it ta ya." Silver hands frame the tactician's faceplate, forcing Prowl to meet the saboteur's intense stare. "Ah need ya in top form right now. Ah need ta be able ta depend on ya without worrying that something is gonna set ya off. It's not that Ah don't have confidence in ya, Prowler. Ya know Ah trust ya more than anyone else-."

A ghost of a smile appeared, followed by a shallow nod.

Jazz returned that ghost with an honest smile. "Ah trust ya with mah life, Prowl, but we both know that you're struggling right now with what's inside ya. For all of us ta get out of here alive, we gotta do some things we don't like."

"I will concede to your reasoning for now," he sighed, shuttering his optics. A moment later, the telltale signs of his emotional centre disengaging became apparent; his stance became subtly more rigid, his faceplate and frame drained of all inflection. When those pale optics opened again, they were as cold and distant as ice.

But beyond that, those optics still belonged to Prowl, not to a sparkless machine.

"Ah'm sorry it had ta come ta this," Jazz murmured.

"Do not be sorry. This was the best course of action to ensure our collective survival," Prowl replied in familiar clipped tones, abruptly turning on his heel to complete his assigned task in as timely a manner as possible. Jazz continued to watch him for several steps before the tactician paused but did not turn around. "When I take you up on the offer to help reengage my emotional centre, that will count as upholding my promise to allow you free reign in my mind."

Not so much a question as it was a statement of fact.

Jazz snorted. "Yeah, it'll count as even – but only if we all get out alive."

Prowl cut him a curt nod before continuing on his way.

"I saw what you did there," Hunter called, summoning Jazz's attention from one bot to the other.

Approaching slowly, Jazz inclined his head. "What do ya think Ah did?"

Hunter grunted, looking like he wanted to raise himself off the ground but did not have the strength to try. "I know what a bot looks like when they start messing around with their emotional centres. Saw enough of it back in the precinct." He pursed his mouthplates. "That was a cruel thing you did asking him to turn it off. It's going to hurt him when he turns it back on."

"Don't ya think Ah know that?" Jazz snapped a little more sharply than he meant.

"I think you do know it, and that's why it was so cruel to ask him to do it. You know how much it's going to hurt him, but you still asked him."

"It was the only thing Ah could think of on short notice. Ya think it was easy for meh ta ask him? 'Cause it wasn't," Jazz spat. "Ah've been in his head. Ah've felt the things he can feel. Ah'm not gonna let him suffer on his own this time."

Hunter blinked slowly, taking in the measure of his volatile company. "You're being sincere, aren't you?"

"Yes, Ah am."

Again, blue optics scrutinized him. "Well... alright then. So long as you weren't doing this just to hurt him."

"He's the only bot in this world Ah don't want ta see hurt."

The admittance was honest enough to summon surprise in the scout's optics.

"You're a different sort of bot from what I thought you would be," Hunter admitted after a long silence. "When I heard Prowl had taken you on as a pet project, I was kind of expecting some kind of Machiavellian psycho... not someone who cares so much."

Jazz pursed his mouthplates at that comment, mulling over it to consider the best form of response. Nothing particularly acidic came to mind. He was too drained to make an issue.

With a pensive shrug, he said. "Ah've changed, Ah guess – thanks ta Prowl." The edges of his mouthplates quirked up. "He's a damn stubborn glitch."

Hunter had enough energy to chuckle quietly. "It's a two way street. Prowl's not exactly the same mech I remember either." One large hand patted Jazz on the foot. "Prowl wouldn't like it if I told you this, but he's the sensitive sort. It takes a lot for him to let a bot in."

"Ah noticed."

The scout cast him a measuring look. "It looks like he's let you in a lot farther than he's let anyone else in a long, long time."

"Since Evasia," Jazz supplied.

"He told you about her?" Hunter wondered with obvious surprise. "Looks like he let you in a lot farther than I thought. You work fast."

"Fast? Ah've been at Iacon for nearly two vorns."

Hunter did his best to raise his shoulders as a nonchalant shrug. "Fast by Prowl's standards. It took Evasia a lot longer to weasel her way in."

Jazz looked away, casting a pensive glance at the ground. "He's mentioned her, but Ah don't know the story about everything that went on." He began shuffling Kingpin's parts closer, weighing his options and deciding to do the less risky reservoir exchange before handling anything else.

Hunter watched the reservoir come closer to himself, accordingly shutting down operations in that area to allow for an easier surgery. "What went on between those two isn't my story to tell. I'm just sorry it ended the way it did. It hit us all hard, but it hit Prowl the hardest. He wasn't the same after it."

Jazz nodded silently, eyeing Hunter's frame as if to figure out the best way to go at this. Joints and hinges had been seized from the two shots, so he dug his hands in and manually pried the slates of armour apart to get at the scout's innards. Everything inside looked familiar on a general level. Nothing new jumped out at him. It gave him an odd sort of confidence that maybe his stolen medical memories and a long career in physical torture might actually be enough.

"Have you... ever done this before?" Hunter asked worriedly.

Silver shoulders arched up. "Ah've taken things out before... never really put anything back in, though. How hard can it be?"

Hunter's head flopped back to the ground. "I am _so_ going to die."

"Just in case ya do, don't come back ta life or Ah'll have ta rip your head off."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Energon flow was shut down to the reservoir, allowing for tubes and connectors to be disengaged safely. Bolts and nuts were harder to finagle without the right tools. Jazz made due with what he had, causing only a moderate amount of damage to the surrounding machinery before popping the last bolt and jiggling the damaged part free.

"It's kind of weird doing this without someone screaming or beggin' for mercy," he observed absently, setting aside Hunter's reservoir and taking up the harvested one.

"Is that your version of reassurance?" Hunter snorted. "I'd rather have Prowl rattling off the statistical chances of me surviving this ordeal."

"Wuss. But speaking of your chances, just in case ya don't make it through this-"

"_Still_ not reassuring-"

"Ah'm just thinking contingency plans. Ya got a ship, right? There's no way ya got here as quick as ya did without no ship."

Hunter coughed, grimacing. "Yeah, had a ship. Crashed it, though. Hit a storm and it took me right out of the sky."

Jazz cursed under his breath, glaring into the mess of innards as he tried to figure out how to fit a square peg into a round hole. Nothing could ever be easy, could it?

"_But..."_ Hunter intoned lightly, "I caught a lucky break. Got another ship, and it got me here just fine. Not going to say it was easy, since the damn thing had an attitude and the tracer Prowl gave me wasn't all that reliable down here, but yeah, it's a decent ship when you're in a pinch."

Jazz wrenched something inside, causing Hunter to howl and convulse.

"Sorry, wrong valve," the saboteur cringed, waiting for the coarse words to die down before he got back to jerry-rigging Hunter's insides.

"Frag you," Hunter spat on reflex, heaving ragged drags of air through his vents. "Where's Prowl? I want a witness present."

"He'll be back soon," Jazz answered, glancing over his shoulder in hopes that he would see a familiar storm grey shape approaching. No such luck, but it was worth a shot. "Tell meh more about this miracle ship before Ah touch something wrong again."

Hunter groaned, shuttering his optics. "It was a bad crash and I was lost for an orn or two. I honestly thought I was a goner – I had decent EM shielding, but my rations were running low and you can only handle the poles for so long. Happened upon a nomad Neutral right in the middle of the night. Nearly shot her head off before she said she came in peace."

"How very un-Autobot of ya," Jazz observed.

"You try spending the night alone in the middle of nowhere and not get spooked," Hunter retorted stubbornly. "She might have been a bit rough around the edges, but you gotta expect that in a place like this. Only crazy bots would choose to live in the poles."

"So... what? A Neutral just appeared out of nowhere and magically procured ya a ship? Sounds suspicious." He finished with his work on the tank. It was the ugliest thing he had ever seen in all his life, with crooked lines and rejecting connecting. Its only saving grace was that it was holding in place, as unstable as it was. Hunter would not be allowed to move much, but at least he wasn't slowly going to starve his frame of energon.

"It was damn suspicious," Hunter replied as appropriate parts of himself whirred back up to attempt integrating his new frame part. He grimaced as warning notices popped up to inform him in no uncertain terms that he was an idiot and to go find the right kind of frame part or he was going to pay for it – although it was in much more official terms than that.

"Not a perfect fit, but Ah did what Ah could," Jazz reasoned. "Now explain about following this Neutral? Are ya stupid or something?"

"Said she knew you, mentioned you by designation and everything. I figured she might have been an old associate of yours by the way she talked about you – 'disappointment this' 'failure that.' Real friendly sort, if you know what I mean. She had a mean look about her, but it was hard not to listen when she was describing the stealth ship you two were flying, where it set down and how to get there. I figured it was worth a shot. Worst that could happen was that she attacked me the moment my back was turned and harvested me for my parts. I got to the ship in one piece and the rest is history. Never seen a ship work so hard to get through an electromagnetic storm like that one did."

"Putter-poof saves the orn," Jazz laughed. "That stupid ship."

"Putter-poof? Is that what you call it? I've been calling it 'Noisy Piece of Junk.' No wonder it had an attitude with me," Hunter chuckled.

A distant shout alerted them to Prowl's quick approach, his arms laden with cubes of machinery-grade energon and a hovering gurney following along at his back.

Jazz raised an arm and shouted back, assuring his partner that Hunter was still alive and made it through the tank exchange. The dicey part was going to be the welding of the armour without igniting anything important.

Hunter relaxed into the hard ground as Prowl came into his periphery. "Good, you're still alive."

"I could same the same for you," Prowl replied, laying down his collection of cubes before gesturing to the gurney. "I found one of these in the corridor above the generator room. It would be useful in transporting you outside this place."

"Great," the scout grunted, making a face at the stained, gouged metal.

Jazz repositioned Kingpin's armour above Hunter's chest. "What's also great is that we got a ship ta get out of here in. Hunter flew Putter-poof here."

"ICOM-7," Prowl corrected briskly. "How did you manage to find it? It was well hidden."

"Had help," Hunter shrugged. "Old friend of Jazz's pointed me in the right direction."

"Jazz has no old friends, only bots who want to kill him, " Prowl replied. "Who was this mysterious benefactor of yours? Did this bot give you a designation?"

"Sure she did," Hunter supplied defensively. "It was a weird designation."

"Let's have it, then. Hopefully we will be able to trace it and find out if there are any Decepticon connections."

Hunter cast Jazz a pained look, to which the saboteur could only shrug.

"Humour him," he said. "Ah'd like ta find out what this mysterious bot was called, too. Send her a thank you note."

The scout nodded.

"She called herself Xerxia."


	40. Chapter 40

I _meant_ to expand on Prowl in this chapter and give him a much needed glimpse into his past. I've had one particular scene boiling in my head for a very long time. I really, really, _really_ wanted to write it at the end of this chapter, but it did not fit in as well as it was meant to, so that means it gets bumped to the next chapter. =_= It's kind of funny how Jazz is such an enigmatic character in this story and yet we probably know more about him than we do about Prowl. Well, we'll be seeing the tides turn now, I suppose. Prowl is in for some changes, and you will be seeing more of what makes him tick. Well, that's my plan, at least. Let's see what actually happens. ^_^;

_Jazz's Accent in flashbacks – _Remember, during his flashbacks, Jazz is speaking Pax, which is not his native language. He still has an accent, though due to Pax's similarity to Kev in structure and pronunciation, his accent is less obvious than what may be read/heard when he is speaking Main Cybertronian. Also, I have thought _way_ too much about this. Someone get me a life. =_=

I want to sincerely thank the reviewers of the last chapter. There is nothing so inspiring as the thought that there are others out there in the big wide world of the internet who think giant alien robots are sexy. Because, really, they are sexy, aren't they? =P Even more inspiring is the brave ones who take the time to comment about it. It is you, my darlings, to whom this story is dedicated. And, just so you know who you are, my thanks to: **dellykins, Anodythe, renegadewriter8, White Aster, Katea-Nui, Kai-Chan94, Christarpax, Gamemice, . .win, Wanderling, Daklog73, Nikkie2010, Camfield, No Name, Faecat, Prowls-little-angel, Optimus Bob, quasarsmom, electro moonlight, Fianna9, VyxenSkye, CNightJoy, Qwertzu, femme4jack, JenEvan, Starscream II, IBrokeThe4thWall, AliceSylvia, Ano-Hitori-Chichi, MoonWallker, Demonsurfer, Jessie07, Whiteinu1, evilbunny777, TheVastraNararda, Kidara, NarnianOpal, Stargazer at Moonlight, Jenn, VaRa129, Azur3sk1es, Wind of the Dawn, BoredTech, Sideslip, Elenyar, darkwoldlink1, bladerunner89, **and** Lecidre! **If I ever met any of you in person, I would huggle you up and down.

Everyone who thinks giant alien robots are sexy, leave a review! XD

**Where You and I Collide  
Chapter 40  
**

_Night was setting, and the nocturnal territory of Tyger Pax was coming to life. _

_Jazz felt the beckoning tide of oncoming darkness as oceans might feel the draw of the moons. He knew when nightfall came by the rising wildness inside him, a dark tide that lapped along the shores of his mind with hypnotic seduction. _

_Even trapped inside the dojo all orn, sometimes barred from the outside world all together, he knew when his time to roam free approached. Like an awful beast, the knowledge of encroaching darkness stretched and prowled within the confines of his armour, pricking claws along his innards and making him itch to be released. Shadows would beckon like whispers, a near audible sound that resonated in his head and turned his mind to all sorts of many things. The taste of freedom fizzed and burned like an addictive drug. To fall into the embrace of the cold nightfall was like being welcomed into the arms of a wonderful and abusive lover. He wanted the dizzying spell of madness and agony, wanted to wrap himself up in it and never let go. When the rush came, it felt as if it were being absorbed into his frame and scoring away other pieces of himself that he would never miss. _

_**Soon**, he felt it... Soon, a night would set that would score away the last piece of himself holding on... and he would be free. _

_Sitting on the edge of the balcony that his home and prison boasted, he let the cool air rush over him. A decent breeze for setting evening, that odd place between air warmed by the sun and cooled by the coming night. There was no railing to catch him if he fell. It had been a very long time since Jazz had cared about the lack of railing, or cared for anything else at all. He smelled the exhaust of the city, metallic tang, chemical burn off, and a lingering flavour that seemed to be unique to Tyger Pax alone. _

_He looked out at the distant horizon of the capitol column, where in the darkness seemed to lead out forever into the endless universe. Such a lie. The dangerous reality was a sudden drop off to the rest of territory far below, a sure death to everyone without wings. At his back was the remnants of the orn, with the distant sun sinking lower on the horizon in a slow death. The last vestiges of daylight warmed the armour of his back. Everywhere in between the two horizons, dying red light bathed the capitol city in vivid shades that turned dark and darker. _

_It was the beginning of the Dark Season, when the nights stretched longer than the orns. _

_Jazz's favourite season. _

_Another breeze blew crosswise across his frame, travelling over and through his armour with odd thoroughness to leave no part of him untouched. A gentle touch, something as foreign to him as wickedness might be alien to others. The current brought a familiar scent he had long come to associate with the presence of his master – a flavourless, hollow sweetness that came so transiently on the air as to be a ghost. _

"_It is going to be a nice night tonight," Xerxia commented distantly, appearing as if she had always been sitting on the balcony to Jazz's right. _

"_Sure," he replied, unsurprised by his sudden company. _

_From his periphery, Jazz could see his master's formidable silhouette, with her heavily armoured squat frame and those deep set lifeless optics. Her frame was one that Jazz knew intimately - every bolt that held her pitch black armour in place to every scar that ran nearly as deep as her animosity toward the universe itself. Jazz knew her powerful fists and her even more powerful legs, the movement of her frame, and even the limp that he had inspired from earlier in their training that orn – a boon he had scored by evading a crushing kick and retaliating by destroying the spring mechanism in that leg. _

_Xerxia was a constant fixture in his life, like an unforgiving black hole in the centre of a universe that was irrevocably spinning off its axis. As terrible as she was, the catalyst that had driven Jazz to the precipice of sanity he now teetered precariously on, she was also the only creature who seemed to be holding on to those last thin threads of reality. The master who held the leash of a beast, watching with cruel delight as the beast grew more rabid with every lunge for freedom. _

"_You never watch the sun set," she observed, looking from one horizon to the other. "I have known you since before many of the stars in the sky could shine, and you always watch the night instead."_

"_Ah prefer ta watch the darkness come," he murmured. _

_Xerxia inclined her head with no reply. _

_It was quiet again after that, with only the backdrop of the city sounds and the lonely whistle of a cold breeze to fill the gaping emptiness. Jazz found himself shifting on his perch as if there were an itch beneath his armour that he could not scratch. It was an increasingly noticeable problem as the vorns went by, growing more intense as he failed to assuage the irritation. Restlessness that beckoned him into the unknown, relief from it taunting him just beyond his clutches. _

"_There's a street party happening on Omega Level," Jazz suddenly announced. _

_The lowest level of the city might be home to the most degenerate, vile collections of corrupted data and black sparks, but they could throw one pit of a party. Packed full of writhing frames grinding against one another in a desperate bid to forget their lives for just a single moment. The sounds and sights and smells were always loud and bright and pungent. A microcosm of insanity. It was a good place for Jazz to _really_ let loose. _

_Xerxia picked at a fleck of dried energon clotting the joint of a finger. "There's always a party on Omega Level."_

"_This one is for the Dark Season. Ah was thinking of going," Jazz murmured. "There's gonna be a lot of bots there."_

_A laugh snorted through his master's vents as she flicked away the congealed energon. "Are you inviting me along?" _

"_No." _

"_I didn't think so." There was humour instead of offence in her tone. Even if she had been invited, she would refuse. Xerxia was not the sort who enjoyed crowds, or bots, or anything really. She stared out over the same cityscape as Jazz, but she seemed to see so much more that his optics could. "What is it about the Dark Season that you like so much?" _

"_Ah like it the same way Ah like watching the night come: it's dark," Jazz replied blandly. "It's a season made for bots like us – the orns are short and the nights are long." _

_Xerxia tilted her head back and shuttered her optics as if to absorb the words and let them become a part of herself. Jazz watched her from the corner of his optic, fighting the sudden urge to push her from the ledge. There was no particular reason for the desire. The time had long past since he had held a grudge toward her. He just wanted to push her to see what would happen. A means of feeding his curiosity. He wanted to see her fall for the pure rush of it. It would be fun. _

_Xerxia's fathomless optics cracked open into narrow slits. "What is in the dark that attracts you as it does?" _

"_There's nothing _**in**_ the dark that makes it special. Ah told ya, it's just the dark Ah like," Jazz replied after careful consideration. "It is not even an object. It's just a state... It's empty." _

"_Like you," Xerxia sneered. _

_Jazz chuckled humorlessly. "Like me. That's probably why Ah like it so much – Ah can relate to it." He lifted one hand to peer at his bare palm, beautifully crafted dark metal shaped mindfully with precise contours for the best grip and ability to clench his fist. Sometimes he looked at himself and no one looked back at him. "It's empty and cold. There's a beauty in it that you can't find in the light."_

_There was a creaking noise as Xerxia shifted her weight, hissing a gravelled curse as her damaged leg protested the movement. One large hand gripped the dented section that was satisfyingly shaped like the sole of Jazz's right foot. Unlike the urge to push Xerxia off the ledge, Jazz felt no need to apologize for the damages he inflicted earlier. _

"_What if the dark is not as empty as you think it is?" his master enquired hoarsely in that grating voice of hers, deep and gravelled like an avalanche. "It could be full of things that you cannot see."_

"_What things?" Jazz scoffed. _

"_Any manner of things," Xerxia offered enigmatically. "That is what is so clever about the dark – it hides as much as it reveals."_

_Incredulity and scorn dripped from Jazz's next words: "Are ya thinking of the spark-eaters and frame-snatchers that supposedly creep up from the poles every Dark Season?" He raised his arms and wriggled his fingers in a bid to mock the supposed 'spookiness' of such stupid little stories. "Or the Original Thirteen Transformers who allegedly watch over all of Cybertron? Bad fairytales of some dark Fallen One who sulks around with nothing better to do than make trouble and be the Unmaker's slave?" He gave off a harsh laugh. "Are ya making fun of me?" _

"_I was curious of your opinion," Xerxia intoned cryptically. _

"_Ya never were before," Jazz countered, whipping a handful of rusty gravel over the side of the building to plummet out of sight. _

"_There is a first time for everything." _

_Jazz did not give an answer right away. The wrong answer, even an opinion that Xerxia didn't like, could result in a challenge he did not have the spark to take up at the moment. At the very least, she'd push him off the balcony - which, considering everything else she had ever done to him, was the not the worst thing to ever happen. So instead of supplying a snappy retort, he mulled over his thoughts carefully. It was hard to pin down an answer, feeling like his thoughts were eluding him on purpose. He would reach out to grasp one and shape it properly, only to have it slip through his fingers. Like the dark itself, maybe - cool thoughts that were there, but not physical entities he could capture and choke. _

_Xerxia waited with unusual patience for her apprentice to grasp a thought so tightly it bled. _

"_There's nothing out there in the dark...or in the light for that matter," he announced just as soon as he reached those conclusions. "No monsters or gods – those are just things bots create stories of because they are not strong enough to handle reality. The world is what it is – it is void of fantastical or extraordinary things. You know that. Ah know that. There is only _this-_" He gestured to the city stretched out before them, "a shallow world full of lights and colour and noise... but it's still empty." _

_Xerxia revved from deep within her barrel chest, a sound that said she was considering his words sincerely. _

_A wry smile tugged at the corners of Jazz's mouthplates._ "_Ah've been with you for a very long time. You've shown meh how the world is and what it truly looks like. Ah've seen who bots are when they are reduced to their bare essentials –," he waved a dismissive hand, "they are just shadows on the wall. They're barely real at all. In all the time Ah've been with ya, don't ya think either of us would have noticed little things running around in the dark besides ourselves?" _

_Taking Xerxia's silence as encouragement, Jazz continued, "The only things out there that bots should be afraid of are bots like us. There are no fairytale creatures, no mythological monsters, or omnipotent beings who give a slag about the little pieces of nothing down here. There are just mortals with sparks and minds and physical bodies. They can be hurt, and tortured, and killed. Nothing more." _

"_Nothing more," Xerxia repeated with a distant smile as if considering a private joke. The light from the city reflected off the lenses of her optics, causing them to briefly shift from blue to look like twin sunsets. "You hold such finite views of the world. Where might you have learned that from?" _

"_Why should Ah think of the world as anything else?" Jazz admitted hollowly. "You've managed ta beat everything else outta me."_

"_I take full credit for making you as you are, but do not make it sound so bleak."_

_Jazz did not know how to make it sound any other way. _

_The answer was supplied moments later, simple and obvious, without gloat. "For all that I have taken away, I have also given you everything. You are more than you ever would have been if you had been left in that cage of a Youth Sector to rot away all that potential. But you are still young compared to the stars - you have yet to learn of all the gifts I've given you." A breeze blew, carrying with it the smells of night and the sounds of the city. Xerxia's gaze glinted as shards of glass as she stared out at the darkening landscape. "I have accomplished everything I set out to do from the orn I took you. You are nearly complete."_

_A fission of irritation seared inside him, starting with calling him young and flaring with the implication that he was an imperfect student. **"Nearly**? Ah've spent a lifetime with you. Several lifetimes. How could Ah not know everything by now?" _

"_What is left is everything I cannot give you." Her uninjured leg kicked a discordant rhythm against the side of the balcony: thump-thumpthump-thump. "There are things in this world you need to see for yourself. Things that I cannot teach you." _

"_Like what?"_

"_If I told you, it wouldn't be a proper lesson, now would it?" _

_Irritation simmered down to a slow burn. They both sort of chuckled, even if neither of them were amused. _

_The sun finally died at their backs, taking with it the last vestiges of warm light. Now the sky was cool, cast in the distance in twilight shades of indigo and violet and velvet black studded in scarce stars obscured by the light pollution of Tyger Pax. Over the city, the sky was a mottled churning twist of faded lights caught on weak clouds, of distant dark skies, and an even darker underworld that stretched out below. Neon lights glared up from the depths like the optics of hungry beasts waiting in the dark to swallow victims whole. Jazz's restlessness grew to a fever pitch, to the point where he was uncomfortable in his own armour. He shifted agitatedly, fighting the urge to let go of the ledge and plummet downward into the open embrace of the city. _

_Xerxia reached out, curving her fingers through the air like she was cupping a faded star in her palm. Her fist closed, fingers locking tight, joints groaning. A crushing grip that Jazz knew too well – powerful, strong, and steady. The grip that held his choking leash. When her fingers unravelled once more, the star was gone. No, not gone. It had never been a star in the first place. Just a passing airship that warp jumped into interstellar space. _

_A low breath steamed from the old circuit-su master's vents, blowing ghost white vapour into the cool air. "If this is all there is to the world, what happens when you die?" _

_A question posed both in nonchalance and like the bonus question on an exam that would determine whether or not Jazz passed. _

_It was a stupid bonus question, as far as Jazz was concerned. What happens when you die? What sort of question was that? Life was small. It was a speck of existence breaking up the endless darkness on either side. A fluke of awareness. To die was so simple, so clinical, and at the same time it could be the most thrilling, exhilarating rush anyone ever experienced. Jazz would know, he had his own life experiences to compare with - personal and otherwise. He had held sparks in his palm like he was a god - and then he'd dashed them out as if crushing stars. It was the only type of light he thought was beautiful. The energy of the spark seized, flickered, and then would sometimes burst like a super nova. Sometimes, it was a quiet end; the light would fade and darkness would take its place. He supposed it all depended on the spark. Some were more lively than others.  
_

_And after that? There was nothing after that. _

_To die meant..._

"_Nothing," he stated with finality. "There's nothing after we die. No bright shining light or the sparks of loved ones waiting for ya. There's no afterlife or whatever ya want to call it. Dying is for the weak, anyways. Ah am strong enough now to survive anything you throw at meh. Ah won't let my spark fade out." _

_Xerxia raised her optic ridges. "And what if it's not your choice? I took that choice away from you once." _

_Jazz thinned his mouthplates into a firm line, fists creaking as they clenched. "Only once. It won't happen again. Ah'm strong enough to fight now. Ah won't die. Ah refuse too."_

_Her optics saw more than she was meant to. "What is it about death that frightens you?" _

"_Ah am not afraid!"_

_There was cruel laughter in the air. "Then what it is that you do not like?" _

_Overhead, the deep rumble of a heavily chugging engine passed by. The underbelly of the ship was scarred, its paint flaking. Old advertisements had faded with age.  
_

_Jazz thought about what he hated the most. And then he thought about whether or not he should admit it to his master. The sad truth was, she was all he had in life. If he did not tell her, then there would be no one in the world who knew him.  
_

"_There are no records of meh," he admitted with a razor's edge in his voice. A dull razor, with rust beginning to creep along the blade. "Kaon's records burned in a fire. Tyger Pax doesn't even know Ah exist - Ah have only ever lived here, in this dojo. The only bot in this world Ah know is you. If Ah died, Ah would cease to exist. There would be no one to mourn me... not even a record to say Ah existed. No spark would ever know Ah was here. If Ah died, Ah would become no one." _

_It was not said aloud, but the truth was there nonetheless. What Jazz hated most about death – his own death - was the idea of being forgotten._

_He feared being **alone**. _

_A smile stretched so wide across Xerxia's ugly faceplate that the darkened chasm seemed to split her in half. A grin wide enough to swallow the moon. "When you let go of this life, you will become No One. I like that. That's more than I expected to hear." _

_Jazz said nothing. He did not feel safe saying anything in that moment. _

"_That's enough for the orn," Xerxia suddenly announced, giving her long-term apprentice a rough shove that nearly unseated him from his perch. "Go enjoy that street party you mentioned. Wreak some havoc. You desperately need it." _

_Jazz rose from his spot abruptly, feeling the desperate urge to be elsewhere. Anywhere but on that ledge with his master. He was nearly gone from the balcony before she called him one last time. It was with the greatest reluctance that he turned to her. _

"_Happy Dark Season, Jazz," she said in a surprise bid of foreign affection. _

"_Yeah... Happy Dark Season," he replied uneasily, seeing an opening to leave and taking it in a flash. _

_It was barely before dawn when he finally managed to drag himself back home. The street party had proven distracting for only a short while before his interests were drawn into more illicit activities. The gobs of congealed energon dripping from his frame were a testament to that, as were the scratch marks and the lingering scent of burning metal that clung to him. He was nearly feral with all the thoughts and whirling faceplates whizzing by in his head. _

_He was so involved inside himself that he barely noticed that the dojo had been cleared out. The living quarters, too. Every storage room now stood open and bare. Despite having lived in the space for what could be conceived as his entire life, it took Jazz the whole of a breem to realize that his home stood empty. It was a whole breem after that before he realized what it could mean. _

_Xerxia was gone. _

_Just gone.  
_

_There was not even a note to say what had happened.  
_

_If dawn came that morning, Jazz did not remember it. _

_The last thing he remembered before the blurring started and the world simply rushed off in all directions was how alone he was. The echoing hollowness in the still air that permeated deep into his cold sparkcase. A quietness so profound that it left his audios ringing. He remembered a sharp pain from somewhere inside him, and knew that it was the feeling of his leash being snapped. Xerxia had let him go. He was free, but there was no joy. He felt nothing at all as he rushed out of the only home he had ever known, both his prison and his refuge. Down he went into the bowels of the planet, empty and cold like the dark itself.  
_

_After that orn, the Dark Season never ended for Jazz. _

* * *

A loud crash shattered the quiet of the night, followed by the bellow of an inconsolable beast.

Putter-poof shuddered on unsteady landing struts, rocking back and forth to comfort itself. The gentle motions swayed the two bots camped inside, though offered no comfort to them. The hull of the ship did nothing to block the noise outside, nor ache it inspired in the sparks of those who heard it.

Hunter heaved a sigh with a grimace. "He's at it again."

Prowl did not glance at the darkened open hatchway, nor did he show any sign of acknowledging the ruckus outside.

"Well?" Hunter urged. "Aren't you going to go check on him?"

Prowl still did not look up from the report he was writing to sum up his carefully edited experiences in Shockwave's lair, though he did deign to answer with a curt, "No."

Because there was not much else he could do. Hunter stared unblinkingly at his brother until Prowl looked up over the top of his dusty data pad.

"I said no," the tactician reiterated, and then promptly returned to his work.

Hunter gave a disgusted snort and fell back on the floor, shuttering his optics as his frame protested the movement. Jazz had managed to do his best with the field surgery, but there were some things that were even beyond the saboteur's capabilities. A random mech could not simply pull parts out of one frame and apply them to another. Infection was beginning to set in, corroding neural wires and poisoning energon. His spark was straining under the increasing burden, its beats slow and painful as energy continued to leak throughout his frame. Hunter kept quiet about the discomfort, refusing to bring more distress to the already strained faculties of their odd trio (and ship).

"So you're just going to leave him on his rampage?" he enquired hoarsely.

"What other course of action do you propose?" Prowl riposted archly. "He has gone out every night to 'rampage' – as you so call it."

"Just because he's done it every night since we left the South Pole doesn't mean it's right."

"Right and wrong are irrelevant in this case," Prowl countered. "He has done no harm to himself nor to us or to the ship. The most damage he has caused is to scare away that group of Neutrals looking to raid us. I would call that rather fortunate, considering the physical states we both are in. We are in no condition to properly defend ourselves."

"He also killed a whole scouting team of Decepticons the other night."

"Acceptable collateral," Prowl dismissed.

"Six Decepticons he brutally murdered, and then harvested their parts and energon."

"While the manner of their death is questionable by Autobot standards, Jazz is not an Autobot and cannot be held accountable to our standards. He dispatched an enemy who, had he not done so, would have either killed us on sight or alerted others to do so. The harvesting of their energon and parts was a boon. We needed the energon, and frame parts are always valuable."

Anger lit a fire in the scout's optics. "This is why I never liked you when you turned off your centre. You remind me too much of Kingpin."

Prowl flicked him a dismissive glance. "If you are trying to hurt my feelings, I do not have any at the moment."

"Yeah, but it'll hurt later when you turn them back on." With that, Hunter braved an onslaught of pain by turning over on the floor and giving his brother his back - a dirty expanse of metal whose rusty orange hues were beginning to look more like plain rust, the amour beginning to soften with his weakness and making it obvious that he had been trapped on his back for several orns. There was no berth in the ship for him to lay; Prowl and Jazz took turns watching over him, flying the ship, and recharging outside.

Jazz hardly ever closed his optics. He either flew the ship, sat with Hunter, or raged outside.

Prowl sighed, recognizing his tactical error by pushing his suit with Hunter. It was not wise to jostle the injured, especially ones whose conditions were precarious as it was. Perhaps being free from his emotional center for so long was putting stress on his battle computer, causing it to calculate erroneously? A fortnight without his centre was not unprecedented, though presented its own difficulties.

"I am sorry, Hunter."

"Calculated use of a formal statement of regret. You don't feel regret. You don't mean it," Hunter intoned tightly, holding back the burning sensation that being turned on his side inspired. He would not turn back over if it meant looking into Prowl's emotionless faceplate. "Did you forget that my core programming is the same as yours?"

"No, but I thought I could accommodate your state of mind by ceding to my gaffe."

"You want to make things better? Then go get Jazz before he stirs up this whole region and we have every Decepticon and Neutral within driving distance breathing fire down our backs."

Deciding that it was a reasonable demand, Prowl set aside his data pad and rose to his feet with the help of the wall next to him. His injured arm stayed tucked close to his chest. His damages had begun to heal, though without proper medical intervention, the wounds were not set right and the metal was scarring. Burns and blaster wounds were distorting around the edges, showing signs of infection and rust. The imperfection grated against his sensibilities. Communication with the nearest Paxian outpost, a two orn flight from their current position, ensured that medical aid would be dispatched from the main stronghold and be waiting for them when they arrived at the outpost. Prowl's arm was a lost cause; the medic waiting for them would likely amputate, reset his skewed wiring, and give a temporary patch until a new arm could be built for him in Iacon.

It hurt to move, though Prowl remained staunchly silent.

Outside the ship, the night was obscured by three layers of Cybertron above. Dim silver light beamed down around the crisscross of suspended streets and walkways. For the most part, this town hidden away in an outer province of the territory was untouched by the war. It was simply abandoned for being too close to everything else. Neglect was the only damage to be observed; darkened windows, layers of dust, and the crept of rust as time ticked by.

Beyond a bend in the cracked road, another bellow filled the air. Wariness prickled down Prowl's armour. He approached at a slow gait, measuring his footsteps, counting the time between every gravelled growl and spit curse. Most of it was in Main Cybertronian, enough for Prowl to understand the inconsolable rage and fury that shook his partner. The air also carried with it foreign words he did not know; he assumed Kev in some cases, but the rhythm and pitch were wrong compared to the small sample he knew. After that, he decided Jazz was cursing in Pax, words meant only for the master lurking just beyond his grasp.

Jazz himself was a vision in the darkness, standing amidst evidence of his tantrum. Debris scattered around his feet, larger chunks strewn in a wide circle around the axis he had been throwing them. Dust dulled the silver of his armour, turning him grey and ghostlike. Hardened grime accentuated the deep cracks gouging his armour, shadowing dents and deepening the look of exhaustion and outrage. Energon dripped from his fingers. The whiteness of his optics was not perfect, now ringed with red. He looked out of control as he heaved in and out, arms hanging limply at his sides, shoulders hunched.

Prowl stood stiffly at a distance, unwilling to come any closer. This was not the controlled psychopath he had had the displeasure of knowing in Straxis. Gone was the sly manipulation and cold calculation, devilish mischief and frenetic activity. In its place was a creature that the tactician rarely glimpsed – a Jazz made of powerful passions and an even more formidable temper, unrestrained by his usual devious façade. Gone was the leash of imperfect civility. This was a Jazz who was feral and amoral, filled with urges, temptations, and desperately dark desires.

An oozing hand slashed through the air in a violent gesture, throwing flecks of energon in all directions.

"_Get out of here!"_

"No."

Whiteness flickered into deeper red.

"Ah don't want ya here."

Prowl drew himself up, chin rising. "I am not concerned with what you want."

_"Leave meh be!"_ the saboteur howled, echoing loudly through the streets.

"I said no." One functional arm crossed over a damaged storm-grey chest. "You have been on your own for long enough."

Jazz spat a vile curse that needed no translation. Hands clenching and unclenching, armour bristling erratically, he looked ready to explode.

"Hunter sent ya. Ya wouldn't be here on your own."

"Yes, Hunter sent me. He is concerned for your well being. However, it would be a lie if I said I was not concerned in my own way," Prowl informed, shifting his weight carefully. The air huffed gently as he flapped his doorwings uselessly.

Jazz appeared distracted by the movement, focusing on it intensely before jerking his gaze away.

"Just because my centre is not on does not mean I do not recognize the value of our partnership," Prowl pressed on with irritating coolness. "I am concerned for you every night when you go out on your rampages. However, you are a capable bot on your own and you do not require me to oversee your activities. What you do in your own time is your own business so long as it does not interfere with the function of this group."

A grunt sounded from the saboteur, followed by him turning on his heel and wandering deeper into the shadowed overhang of an empty shop. By the looks of the dusty sign, it once had been a mineral shop. The inside was dark, filled with uneven shapes. A drone was left waiting for its master on the doorstep. Jazz picked up the dead thing, its energy drained away for a long, long time, and he threw it into the alley next to the shop. Unseen things skittered away from the noise.

"You are at a loss over what to do," Prowl observed, approaching one slow step at a time.

Dirty, shaking hands were displayed to him with open fingers and an air of helplessness.

"She's supposed ta be dead, Prowl!"

"I know."

"Now Ah find out she's been haunting meh like a bad drug trip? All this time – eons, Prowl! _Eons!_ - and not a word ta meh! She goes off as she pleases and leaves meh behind like Ah mean nothing, and then waltzes back in as if it doesn't matter!" He punched the wall of the alley, shattering his already battered knuckles. Jazz did not feel the pain. "Ah'm gonna kill her! Ah swear ta Primus and every dark place there is, if Ah ever see her again Ah am gonna rip out her spark and make her eat it!"

"You are angry. I understand that-."

Silver armour bristling, Jazz rounded on him with a flash of burning ember red optics. "Angry? _Angry! _Prowl, there ain't no word in Main Cybertronian to convey how fragging _enraged _Ah am! Do ya have any idea how long Ah've lived! How long Ah've gone about mah business thinking someone finally snuck up on that wretched glitch and gave her the dagger to her black, empty spark that she deserved! But no! Turns out she's alive and disposed ta givin' lost mechs directions in storms!"

Prowl did not flinch in the face of such an outburst. He stood firm and fearless. "There is no evidence of her actual death, is there? How could you have been so sure she died?" When there was no answer, the tactician shook his head. "Jazz, you hardly remember your life between your time with Xerxia and your time with me. You said it yourself that it is all a blur. Who is to say that during that unaccounted for time that you did not encounter her?"

"Ah would remember that!" Jazz snarled. "Ah would remember her faceplate. If Ah killed her mahself, it would be the one thing Ah'd gladly remember in all mah lifetimes."

"Are you sure about that?" Prowl pressed, coming so close that he could feel the outpouring of heat that radiated from his partner. "Perhaps you never did encounter her. If she is as powerful as you say she is, then it is reasonable that she has survived so long in the same manner that you have survived. There is the possibility that this encounter is a chance encounter. Or, even more likely, this Xerxia is not your master at all, but someone who uses the same designation."

Jazz's expression was the same as if he had been slapped in the faceplate and dumbfounded by the stupidity of it. Then he gathered his wits, mouthplates firming into a long, thin line. He appeared to be holding back the urge to slap Prowl. It was a short wait before he had the mind to use words again without interspersing them with curses.

"This is not some imposter," he gritted out. Every creeping feeling inside Jazz screamed with a vengeance that this was not some pretender. Who else would have the audacity to critique him?

"A chance encounter, then."

"Not that either. It's not coincidence or chance. How do ya explain a bot older than Am am, someone crueler than Ah am, and more evil than ya can ever imagine, just showing up out of nowhere in one of the most inhospitable places on Cybertron in order ta give Hunter directions to a stupid ship. That ain't no coincidence Ah ever heard of."

Prowl was at a loss for a proper answer. It showed on his faceplate in a manner that probably only Jazz could decipher. A harsh laugh lifted from the saboteur, highlighting his ferocity in the thin starlight. His optics were more like stars now, white and flickering. Before Prowl could evade, a fist landed squared on his injured shoulder. He cried out with the sudden burst of white-hot pain, sending him to one knee as he gripped the offended limb desperately. Jazz stood over him defiantly, petting his head in a mocking gesture.

"Does hurting me make you feel better?" Prowl enquired hoarsely.

"Not as much as Ah hoped," Jazz replied, stopping his administrations. Then he took to one knee in order to peer into Prowl's icy optics. "Not at all, actually."

"Save your ire for the one who deserves it. Help me to my feet."

With a disgusted sigh, Jazz wrapped his arms around Prowl uninjured side and helped his partner to the stoop of the abandoned shop. The tactician was eased down gently. Jazz came down harder, making the bolts in the metal rattle. Dust puffed down on them from above.

"How do you feel now?" Prowl enquired.

Instead of answering, Jazz turned his optics skyward to inspect the lightening horizon he could barely see. "It's nearly dawn."

"That does not answer my question."

"Ah'll be fine soon. Ah always am," Jazz assured, shivering as if cold. "Give meh a little more time ta get it out of mah system. Maybe by the time we reach the outpost, Ah won't want ta kill everything Ah see."

Maybe it was a joke, but it didn't sound like it.

Prowl's shoulder still throbbed. He had a feeling like frost was settling into his frame, making it impossible to keep warm. Jazz's heat helped keep him thawed, so he shuffled closer. "You spent a fortnight raging over her. You are normally more in control of yourself."

"She brings out the worst in meh."

"I noticed."

Jazz uttered something that Prowl could not hear. He pushed to his feet and walked away to the other side of the street, bracing himself against the front of another empty shop. It might have been an old jewellery place, still with sparkling bobbles glinting hauntingly in the cracked crystal window. Jazz looked his age in this light, covered in so much dust, looking broken down and finished. He looked like the Old One he truly was, nearly outliving time itself. He looked fragile and vulnerable.

"Come back to the ship with me," Prowl intoned calmly.

"Not right now."

"You are lonely out here."

"That is a subjective observation, Prowler," Jazz drawled, slowly turning over so that the backs of his shoulders braced the wall. There was a ghost haunting his faceplate, that of a smile that could barely be seen. The oldness faded as quickly as it came.

"It is also a correct observation." A dark optic ridge rose. "You know better than that, Jazz. Just because my emotional centre is turned off does not mean I am incapable of subjective observations. It is merely more difficult to make them. I make the effort for you."

"Ah'm flattered."

"I knew you would be."

Jazz raised his palm, glancing down at it. There was a tremble in the metal that he did not like, but at least he recognized the hand as his. It was a real hand, not blurry around the edges. He suddenly discovered that he did not remember much of his rampages over the past fourteen nights. Only that it had been dark and lonely. The familiarity of it was haunting.

"Come sit down." The dusty spot beside Prowl was swept free, made inviting by a simple pat and an expectant expression.

At first with reluctance, Jazz lurched across the street and fell to the top step next to Prowl. Though fire still lurked in his optics, it was banked and distant. Exhaustion became more pronounced. A fortnight without recharge was not healthy, even for the most resolute.

"We will work through this together," said the tactician. "Not right now, but later when we return to Iacon. There are too many loose ends in all of this business. Shockwave's machinations and their purpose in Megatron's army, the involvement of the _Psi ex Machina-." _

"And now Xerxia," Jazz murmured.

"And now Xerxia," Prowl agreed.

"If we find her, Ah'll kill her."

Prowl revved - not a deep sound, nor a light one. Merely an observational rev that gained Jazz's undivided attention. They locked gazes, and Prowl inclined his head. A logic-based version of concern appeared in his optics. "Your list just keeps getting longer. First Megatron, then Shockwave, and now your old master."

Tired optics shot him an annoyed glare. "Don't think Ah can do it?"

"If you turn your mind to it, you could do a great many formidable things. It makes me appreciate that you are on my side."

Jazz chuckled weakly.

Before the silence stretched on too long, Prowl brought up one of his main reasons for coming to see his partner. "I need to ask something of you."

Dim white optics flicked his way. "What do ya need?"

"The same thing you asked of me a fortnight ago. Perhaps I am a little late in asking this, but I need you stable right now. I realize that Xerxia was once a very big part of your life, and her reappearance in that same life is very..." he stumbled on finding the correct terminology, remembering Jazz's claim that there was no word in Main Cybertronian to convey his state. Prowl settled on a bland adjective. "...upsetting."

Jazz snorted.

Prowl continued to frown. "It may be a lot to ask to rein yourself in at this time, but no more extreme than your request of me. Enough damage has been done. Set your grudge with Xerxia aside until we can deal with it later."

Those optics shuttered tight, followed by a shudder. Jazz's shoulders drooped, hunching inward. Maybe he was in physical pain. "Yeah," he sighed. "Ah can do that. Give meh 'til dawn and Ah can give ya that. Just need a little more time ta settle mahself down." His frame lurched into Prowl's side, the heat of his armour feeling like a steady burn stretching from the top of Prowl's good shoulder down to his hip. "Ah can give ya something else as soon as we get ta the outpost, too."

Prowl arched other optic ridges. "We can wait until our return to Iacon for you to help buffer the backlash. I am in no hurry to turn it back on."

"The sooner we get it done, the better. The longer you're left ta stew, the worse it's gonna be, and Ah'd rather nip it when its least likely ta kill meh," Jazz said with tired humour. "Let the medic patch us back up as best as can be done, and then we find ourselves a quiet hole to get it over with. Can't guarantee it will be pretty, not with the sorry state we're both in, but it'll get the job done."

"That is the best we can expect," Prowl accepted with hard resignation. He expected that when he could feel regret again, he would be feeling a lot of it – among other, more potent, emotions. As always, his battle computer geared up and started issuing logical options and ultimatums. It always seemed logical to stay in the state he was in, despite the ultimate fallacy of it. A cruel trick his own mind liked to play on him.

"Besides," Jazz carried on without mind to Prowl's inner musing, "if we blow out our circuits, there'll be a medic on hand ta fix us. Plus, Ratchet is just a quick comm away. Putter-poof will likely have his engines blown by then. We'll get a faster ship, make it back ta Iacon in record time. You and Ah will have Ratchet and his gentle bedside manner all ta ourselves. "

"Fantastic." He sounded anything but enthused – notably less enthused than he normally sounded when his centre was off. Now _that_ was an impressive feat.

"Kinda looking forward ta being back. Strange, ain't it? Ah think Ah miss mah berth, or something like that." His words turned soft around the edges, the accent more pronounced, as exhaustion weighed more heavily than ever. Without rage, he had nothing to keep him going. A low exhalation breathed from Jazz's vents. Overhead, the sky lightened into grey predawn. The chill of the night grew a little more distant, though hardly noticeable in the shade of the stoop where they sat.

"Used ta hate when the sun came up," the silver bot commented on a barely audible mumble. He looked more silver than grey now as the light above brightened. He looked a lot more like the Jazz that Prowl had become so familiar with. "Funny how Ah think of that right now- about the sun and the light. Ya wouldn't understand. Ah'll tell ya later sometime, if ya remind meh. Ah don't think Ah mind it anymore, though."

"What made you change your mind about the dawn?" Prowl enquired idly, because it seemed like a question he needed to ask.

"Ah met you," Jazz replied blandly, as if that answered everything. Maybe it did, but Prowl's current state simply could not comprehend it. There were downfalls to being a purely logical being. The saboteur's weight grew heavy against Prowl's frame. Dusty air dragged in deep through his vents and blew out in one long exhalation that drained him of all excess.

"So," intoned the tactician. "Shall we return to the ship?"

There came no immediate answer.

"Jazz, it is unwise to leave Hunter unattended for long periods of time in his condition."

When again Jazz did not answer, nor even give any sign of acknowledgement, Prowl cast down a glance at his company, only to realize that a fortnight spent raging without recharge had finally taken its toll. Jazz's optics were closed. His faceplate was slack, without pain or awareness. His weight rested heavily against Prowl, though not beyond what he could tolerate.

Prowl stared down at his company and weighed his options. Shortly after, he connected with ICOM-7's communications hub.

"Hunter, are you online?"

"_Yeah, I guess so. You bringing back Jazz or what? Don't tell me he ran away... You didn't shoot him, did you?_"

"Jazz is fine, though he has fallen into recharge. We will not be returning until he comes online again. Will you be alright by yourself for the time being?"

There was a low chuckle, less pained than Prowl would have expected.

"_Have your alone time,"_ Hunter insisted, actually sounding quite pleased. _"I'll call if I need you." _

The line went quiet.

Prowl peered down at Jazz with a frown, wishing he had had the foresight to have brought his report with him to finish while he waited. It was a waste of time to merely sit around and do nothing. Despite that minor set back, Jazz's warmth permeated through his frame to dispel the last of the frost. He did not have any pressing desire to move.

The sun rose high and bright over Tyger Pax that orn. It was a beautiful new dawn.


	41. Chapter 41

There are so many things to say about this chapter! One, Prowl is much more difficult to write than Jazz. At least with Jazz, I can relate to being an amoral psychopath with a burgeoning desire to possibly Do The Right Thing. Prowl, on the other hand... Well, being devoid of any form of emotion is technically a form of psychopathy, but not the fun kind. He made me work hard to get him _just right_. But that is okay. I am going to torture the ever-lovin' shit out of him, so I think we're even. ^_^

Also, if any of you are curious about Grimm, I would invite you to check out my DeviantART account (link in bio). It is where approximately twenty percent of WE material, including extras for _Where You and I Collide_, are dumped because they do not fit here. You might find the stories _Spark Eater_ and _A Grimm Story_ interesting. =P

And who can start a chapter without thanking all the wonderful reviewers who came before! There are hardly any words to describe my love for each and every single one of you! Thank you for your time and enthusiasm, your love and clever reviews! Thank you to **renegadewriter8,Christarpax, Wanderling, CNightJoy, Jenn, Prowls-little-hetalian, VyxenSkye, Dvana, Lecidre, Qwertzu, Optimus Bob, ****zgjhgnfvhuijgdhf, TheVastraNararda, White Aster, IBrokeTheFourthWall, Nikkie2010, Camfield, Kidara, Alathea2, Haag, Stargazer at Moonlight, DemonSufer, Fianna9, Sideslip, Dusk Rain Fall, Guest, JennEvan, Gamemice, White Morticia, femme4jack, kathy3meme, StarscreamII, Peacewish, darkwolflink1, shadowstalker753, Jessie07, Daklog73, EmperialGem21, ice around the moon, evilbunny777, Queen of the Red Skittle, Move-2-da-beat-femme, Astsadi, kkcliffy, SonicDictionary, smileintothechaos, Agent Or4ng3, SunlightOnTheWater**, and **LucasVN.** You guys keep me going, even when the writing makes me want to chew my own fingers off. ^_^

**Where You and I Collide  
Chapter 41**

Hunter's infection had only grown worse during their flight to the Paxian outpost.

Tyger Pax's medics were there to greet them in a ship specifically outfitted for medical care – a rare ship to find amidst the armadas of stealth and warships. Too many of them were blown out of the sky with nothing but a stray shot, taking with them the lives of medics on board. It was best to keep the ships grounded, and the medics safe from harm; they were too valuable to risk their lives unnecessarily. Even more rare was to see that the Tyger Pax stronghold had leased their CMO for this field call.

It could hardly be called heartening to watch Grimm loom over Hunter's delirious frame like she was the physical manifestation of Death itself.

Though the medic said nothing, it was plain that Hunter was in dire condition. The scout no longer responded to outside stimulus. His armour was degrading at a frightening rate, rust spreading like a plague across his frame. Necrotic tissue sloughed off him in too similar as fashion to the experiments in Shockwave's lab. A putrid stench rose from him where infection had festered the worst. Through his delirium, Hunter alternated between hysteria and incoherent mumbling. His only peace was moments of unconsciousness, but even then he rested fitfully.

An anti-gravity berth was supplied by the two medical drones accompanying Grimm. Four generators were placed on the ground around Hunter, laser-guided to connect and engage with each other before expanding a force field between them that quickly and gently took form beneath Hunter's back. Two assistant medics hovered concernedly on either side of the generated berth, monitoring Hunter for any possible change in condition. Their optics travelled discreetly from the scout to Grimm, carefully keeping their expressions blank as their CMO hunched at Hunter's shoulder and observed with dead optics. Standard procedure for most medics was to scan their patient for a basic idea of their injuries; Grimm stood next to Hunter's frame and rested her hand just above the scout's caved-in chest. Her expression grew grimmer, which could only be a bad sign for a creature who happened to be called _Grimm_.

Hunter was motioned away by a gesture from her gnarled hand. Medics filed out in silent procession. Only the smell of rotted metal lingered within Putter-Poof's bowels.

Grimm left Prowl and Jazz in their ship without saying a single word to them.

In a way, they both preferred her silence. There was nothing she could have said that would have meant anything to either of them after spending orns listening to Hunter's pain. Words would have felt like false hope. And besides, not enough time had passed for them to forget the natural disaster that was her voice... nor could they forget the look on her faceplate as she had lurked in the hall after the Decepticon attack, dragging off two bots for her own means. It was best that she was gone from their sight, performing her function, and leaving the two of them to pretend she was not as disturbing as she actually was.

The medical ship was equipped with only one surgery bay. Few rooms for recharging. No wash racks, aside from spray nozzles within the surgery bay. Prowl and Jazz quickly relocated to the outpost's wash racks where they could finally scrub away several fortnights worth of grime. It was a sadly ill-equipped room whose amenities included only two blocks to sit upon, two pressure washers that supplied only water – though, thankfully, it was hot enough for their purposes - and an alkaline solution in a bottle that could never hope to wash away the amount of organic debris festering on, around, and inside their frames. Only a long, fortifying soak in a tub of acid would be able to slough off the evidence of Shockwave's labs – preferably something with a pH level of one or _lower_. Despite the setbacks, Prowl and Jazz made due with what they were given.

A single medic was spared for their care.

Jazz outright refused to be cared for. Prowl accepted medical assistance with alacrity. Considering his immediate medical condition, it was the most logical thing to do.

Now his destroyed arm laid in a pile of mess on the floor next to him, amputated as he has assumed it would be. It would not be long before he had a replacement. His frame was a basic model, not overly specialized as some bots could be. Wheeljack likely had the necessary parts on-hand and was in the process of building the replacement in anticipation of the tactician's return.

The medic who was treating him had an annoying habit of trying to engage in conversation with him. Nearly as unnecessary as Ratchet attempting to lecture his patients every time they came in for repairs.

"I am not interested in discussing anything at the moment," Prowl announced when he decided he no longer wanted to hear the medic's one-sided attempts.

"Oh," said the small minibot, appearing sympathetic rather than insulted. Considering that his CMO had a voice like a painful death, it was probably commonplace in their med bay for patients to tell them to stop talking. "Of course. I'm very sorry. I imagine this must be a difficult time for you. If it means anything, Hunter is in very skilled hands. Grimm is an expert with spark care. You might say she has a very special way of dealing with them..."

"Because she eats them in her spare time?" Jazz snorted from his seat on the second block in the wash racks.

The medic twittered nervously, his smile brittle when he offered it to the saboteur.

Standing just inside the doorway of the cramped wash racks, green armour shifted and tartan accents caught under the lights. Chester, Head Tactician Adviser of Tyger Pax, flashed a disapproving frown in Jazz's direction, which the saboteur expertly ignored.

Prowl stared blankly at the medic kneeling at his side until the bot grew nervous, quickly returning to his work reordering the tangled chaos that was the tactician's disturbed insides. Notably, the medic was now completely silent and did not appear to have any desire to attempt another conversation. Prowl continued to watch the bot for several breems, gauging how steady his hands were, how confident he appeared in dealing with complex wiring. Deciding the medic's work was satisfactory, Prowl left him to his work in order to observe the exchange taking place between his partner and his fellow Tactical Adviser.

"She doesn't eat sparks in her spare time," Chester said flatly, still frowning.

"Can't prove it. She don't leave behind any evidence," Jazz countered with a shrug, his mouthplates curved in a smirk. He wasn't being serious about his accusations, his amusement stemming from the fact that he knew he was bothering Chester. "She eats the spark and then harvests the frame ta be used for her living patients. It's a perfect setup."

"What makes you think she'd do that?"

"'Cause that's exactly what Ah'd do if Ah was a terrifying creature of the night that ate sparks."

Chester's optics narrowed. "You already are a terrifying creature of the night."

"Yeah, but Ah don't eat sparks."

"And neither does Grimm."

"Can't prove it."

Prowl stared at the tactician with his own frown, being mostly ignored by the other two bots. It was not logical for Tyger Pax to send their Head Tactical Adviser as security detail. It was not logical to send any form of tactician. It was a waste of resources. There were other bots who were trained and better equipped for security detail, such as frontliners, weapon specialists. Even Special Ops or Intelligence & Espionage made better sense. Chester should have turned down the detail and assigned it to a lower-ranking bot equipped for the duty. The fact that a fellow tactician, a Head Tactical Adviser for that matter, was performing an illogical task was bothersome.

Before Jazz's needling could escalate, Prowl cut in with a decided lack of social grace.

"Why are you here?"

Jazz's grin faltered as his gaze tracked back to his partner, watching him for a second, before turning back to Chester. "He was talkin' ta ya."

"I assumed as much, since it would be awkward if he were wondering why you were here."

The corner of Jazz's mouthplate twitched "Well? Ya gonna answer him?"

Chester looked like he would rather draw his weapon on the saboteur. He showed a remarkable amount of restraint in not doing so. He drew a drag of air in through his vents, and then make a face as if he had just scented something awful. His stare was accusatory as he looked between Prowl and Jazz, and Prowl inclined his head to acknowledge that, yes, he and his partner were still rancid from the organic decay that had adhered to their frames for a fortnight. They would likely smell of it for a long time to come. No, neither Prowl nor Jazz would go into detail about why they smelled of organic decay or where the organic decay came from.

Though the words were unspoken, Chester understood them. His mouthplates twitched, and then his olfactory sensor was shut down. When he delivered his answer, it was direct and concise. Something to be expected of an efficient tactician.

"I am here because Grimm and her medics are the most valuable resources we have and it was decided that I was the best to handle Grimm's unusual deposition."

"As an evil spark-eating monster," Jazz added smartly.

Prowl grimaced when the hands inside his chest cavity fumbled for a second, a brief snort of laughter lifting from the medic. The laughter stopped the moment Prowl fixed the bot with a cold stare. There was no laughter after that, only work... and a little bit of fear.

Chester's mouthplates thinned into a straight line as he refused to let Jazz bait him.

"I can concede to the fact that our medics are among the most valuable resources we have," Prowl allowed coolly. "That still does not explain why you, specifically, were chosen for security detail. If such a precious resource needs to be protected, then send along bots who are better equipped to do so and less integral to the function of a whole division. I am aware of a partial roster in Tyger Pax and can think of several warriors better suited to this task than you."

Instead of directly responding to the veiled insult that Chester was one hundred percent sure Prowl was completely unaware he had just delivered, he said, "When I saw you in Tyger Pax, I honestly thought that you had changed, but it appears that I was wrong. Our last meeting must have been a fluke. You have not changed at all."

Prowl failed to realize he had just been insulted.

Jazz, on the other hand, happened to know that Prowl had been insulted. He figured he'd tell his partner later, when he had the emotions to care about such things. It'd be funnier that way. For now, he enjoyed the bickering between two tactical commanders. They bickered in the same way they were programmed to do everything else: in a cold and calculated manner. Prowl likely did not even realize he was bickering with someone, because it was not logical to bicker with a fellow Autobot of similar rank.

For the time being, Jazz relaxed to the soothing sounds of two tacticians hurtling veiled insults at each other. It had been a pit of a mission and he was tired now. His fingers had a lot of damage to them and he was determined to have them fixed up to the best of his ability before he started considering other things – like Hunter's chances of making it through surgery, and how he was going to handle Prowl when it came time to deal with him. The way he figured things were going, it was best to just fix one thing before starting on all the other problems.

"Furthermore," the Iacon tactician pressed on as if he had not been interrupted, "you had personal business with Grimm previous to this mission. Some form of personal feud that you allowed to interfere with your professional business to the point that you refused to even consult with her. Even your second in command refused to consult with her. This is not the mark of someone who I would readily entrust the lives of the Chief Medical Officer or her subordinates."

"Thankfully, it is not your place nor your business to questions the actions of Tyger Pax. Who you would and would not entrust the safety of our medics to is no concern to anyone but yourself," Chester replied. "If you do not recall, it has been over two fortnights since you were last at my base. In that time, Grimm and I have reconciled our differences. We are now perfectly capable of working with each other on a personal and professional level. Her safety, as well as the safety of her medics, is paramount to me."

"That does not explain why you were chosen."

"Perhaps because I requested the detail?"

"That was illogical of you."

"For what reason?"

"You are not a warrior. You are a tactician." Prowl could not understand why the other tactician simply did not see the truth of it. It was straightforward, simple, and finite. Why fight him on something that he was clearly right about?

Chester's optics glinted something icy. "I realize that shades of grey are not your speciality, Prowl, but I am as much a warrior as any Autobot. I can hold my own in battle, and I can defend my charges if the need arises."

A long sigh of air breezed out Prowl's vents. He was running out of reasonable points for Chester to acknowledge, and he was loathe to keep repeating himself. Being unreasonable was more of Jazz's speciality, but one glance in his partner's direction said that Jazz was not interested in inserting himself at this time, Any attempts to engage him would be met badly. Weighing his options, Prowl decided that Jazz was better left to his own devices as he attempted to fix his fingers by himself.

"I am not saying that you cannot hold your own in battle-"

"Merely implying it."

"-but you must admit to the highly illogical notion of a high-ranking commander such as yourself taking on security detail when they are many others available for the task? To that point, should there not be more members of a security detail, rather than a single bot?"

The Paxian's patience finally rung out, his frown reduced to a scowl. "There _are_ no others."

Prowl paused, canting his head. He replayed the statement in his head, and then said, "I beg your pardon?"

He felt the hands dealing with his wiring pause. The medic hissed a soft breath out his vents, his gaze firmly planted on the floor. Prowl could see the lines in his frame were tense, bracing himself for the next words.

"I said there are no others," Chester gritted out hoarsely. "Tyger Pax was recently attacked and we took heavy causalities. A lot of our bots were executed during the Decepticon takeover, or killed during the fight to get the base back. We couldn't spare the base any major protection in the condition that it's in, not on a field call like this, so I volunteered to come. In this case, I was expendable."

From his periphery, Prowl saw Jazz glance over with an arch look. There was warning in the saboteur's unshielded gaze, trying to say something to Prowl without being blunt and loud about it. Whatever the message was, Prowl missed it, while being perfectly aware that if his emotional centere had been turned on, he would have understood exactly what that look meant. He spoke anyways, and promptly made an aft of himself.

"Not everyone on your base is dead. Someone else still could have come," he said. "In light of such a severe attack, it is more important than ever that you remain on base to help restore order. My observation remains that it was illogical of you to place yourself on security detail when someone else of lower rank could have been spared."

Chester swore tightly in a low voice, his gaze narrowing to flashing lasers. "As it was illogical of you to leave your division for several fortnights on complete radio silence? As illogical as leaving Smokescreen in charge of them all? We both know that Smokescreen is good as a temporary, but he lacks the focus and drive for long term, high-stress assignments. This is in contrast to myself, who will be absent for a few orns from Tyger Pax, but am still able to stay in contact with my base the whole time. Who is being more illogical here, Prowl? Answer me this."

There was silence.

Prowl sat tensely on the block with his mouthplates trained into a line thin enough as to disappear off his faceplate. He knew when he was beaten, as unlikely as the situation was. Perhaps pride transcended his emotional status, or it was more likely case of ingrained stubbornness in his core programming that insisted his superior reasoning skills, that prevented him from accepting the unlikelihood of him being wrong. He was a tactical officer of the Simfur Capitol City Security Response; there were none whose programming rivalled that pedigree. Since defeat was not in his repertoire, he continued to sit on the block and make optic contact with Chester until the other tactician looked away with a sound of disgust.

"This argument was pointless," Chester snorted. "Get fixed up and then take your ship and go home. As you rightly pointed out, I have a base I need to get back to and I don't need to be wasting anymore time here."

With a flash of his tartan accents under the lights, Chester was gone.

Prowl continued to stare at the door, even though it was closed and there was no need to stare at it any longer.

Jazz pushed himself around on his block to face him. He wagged a finger at his partner, though the finger was not attached to the rest of him – rather, it was clutched in the opposite hand and being wagged with impunity.

"Stop it," Prowl commanded.

"No," Jazz replied. He looked their medical company over with a suspicious optic, frowning, and then deigned the poor schmuck a non-threat. He addressed Prowl with an arch look. "See what happens when ya turn some stuff off and leave others running? Ya turn into an aft and lose all your friends."

"I do not have any friends."

"Not with that attitude, ya don't."

"I do not have an attitude right now. There is a distinct absence of attitude."

"That's what ya think."

Prowl opened his mouthplates to reply that what he thought was absolutely correct. He could have no attitude if there was an absolute absence of all emotion that would set the precedent for an attitude. However, he closed his mouthplates a moment later when his battle computer alerted him to an elevated threat level in the room. Jazz had subtly angled his frame, watching him for the next move. Coiled tension settled in the saboteur's legs, while the fingers that remained attached on his hands curled ever so slightly into the beginnings of fists. An intentional telegraph as a means of silently warning him that the saboteur's patience had finally run out.

Given that Prowl was currently out an arm, and the rest of him was undergoing extensive rewiring, he was at the disadvantage. There was no point in antagonizing his partner. It would only give Jazz reason to enjoy Prowl's pain later in the evening when they convened to turn his emotional centre back on. The littlest provocation would likely incite Jazz to make the transition even more painful than it had to be.

"Um...Not to interrupt you two, but..." intoned the medic, instantly becoming the target of two very intense stares. He sat back on his heels and tried not to wither under their combined gazes. His fingers were wet with energon from a displaced valve he had been readjusting.

"Have you found something amiss?" Prowl enquired curtly.

"More than a little something, but at least you are better off compared to that poor scout you brought in," was the tired reply. "Your wiring is fine; most of it can be untangled and reset right here. There are some wire bundles than have corroded beyond salvaging, so I will have to cut them out. Don't worry, though - there are several spools of wire in med stock on the ship." A pair of shoulders shrugged haplessly. "Structurally speaking... I don't know what you two did down in the Pole, but you managed some impressive damage. Unfortunately, you've left your wounds to heal on their own for too long. A lot of it has set wrong."

"I assumed as much," Prowl stated flatly.

With a nod, the medic continued. "Your shoulder is the worst of it; the endoskeleton is practically gone, and what's left is already necrotic with rusted metal. You got off lucky with having your interfacial port destroyed, or else you might have risked having the corrosion spread into the operational hub, and from there into your processor."

"A lucky break, then?" Jazz wondered lightly.

"Sure, you can call it that." Skilled hands flicked off drying energon, rearranging tools on the tiled floor in a distracted manner as to give him an excuse not to meet Jazz's gaze. "Once I am done here, I am going to write up a few recommendations to send to Ratchet. Since of a lot of the damages here are as a consequence of leaving the initial damages for too long, I suspect that your medic is simply going to cut out most of the internal structure and replace it with a new endoskeleton when he replaces your arm. You'll get a new interfacial port with the reconstruction, of course. Most medics would go that route; it's easier than trying to reset warped metal with this level of rust already set in. Give it an orn or two and this whole section will be dead anyways."

Prowl sat back, carefully considering the information he had just been given. It all sounded perfectly logical to him. He inclined his head and said, "I understand."

"This is just so you are prepared for surgery when you get to Iacon," was the needlessly reassuring answer. "There is no sense in not having you prepared for treatment. I can give you something for the pain and infection in the meantime. It's not very strong, so you will still be able to fly to Iacon, but it should lessen your discomfort for the time being."

Jazz revved shortly. "How much longer are ya gonna be working on him?"

"It may take a few more joors to get everything sorted out to my satisfaction. I don't want to leave anything to chance right now. Infection and rust are two things to never take lightly. Although..." He made an slightly irritated expression. "It won't be as long as it _could_ be. I have a feeling I wouldn't be welcomed inside his head to see what kinds of EM damage the Pole did on his processor..."

"You are not welcome inside my head," Prowl commanded sharply. "I am aware of the damages. They are not pressing at the moment; they will be repaired at my convenience."

The medic flinched, keeping his optics firmly fixed on the floor. "Figured as much. So, yeah... at the very least, give me another two joors to sort everything out."

"Alright, two joors," Jazz agreed. "It'll give meh time ta scope this place out and find a space ta crash for the night."

"We have rooms prepared for you on our ship. That should be alright, shouldn't it?" Tools chinked together, rearranging them again, preparing to delve back into the literal inner workings of the Head Tactical Adviser of Iacon.

"No offence, but your ship isn't what Ah need right now," Jazz dismissed.

In a single, fluid movement, he slide from the washing block to stand tall, stretching his back to the sound of snapping and cracking as his spinal column reset itself. Prowl watched with a critical optic, noting a slight favour to Jazz's right side; there was a problem with his left arm, causing him to lean away from it. It was most likely a seized tension wire as a consequence of their climb down the ice wall into Shockwave's gorge. He showed no outward discomfort, gave no sign he wished for the Paxian medic to examine his arm, and Prowl suspected that Jazz was waiting to get back to Iacon so that someone he knew could treat him.

Prowl's optics jerked up when he realized his lingering gaze had been caught.

"Come find meh when you're done here," Jazz ordered, once again wagging his unattached finger.

"When I am ready, I will come find you," Prowl replied.

The saboteur measured him with a shrewd glance, his mouthplates subtly curving downward at the corners. "Yeah, let's see how long that takes."

* * *

Prowl did not seek out Jazz when he was done with the medic. As he had specified, he was not ready yet.

Long before his rewiring was complete, it had been decided that there were far more pressing matters to attend to before he appealed upon Jazz to assist him in turning his centre back on. Chester had been right; it had been far too long since Prowl had checked in on his division. He had been negligent of his position within the Autobots – a mistake that could easily be rectified with a quick call.

Never mind that there was a distinct part of his battle computer currently informing him that his actions were merely stalling for the inevitable.

Prowl decided that the inevitable would still be there waiting for him when he was done his call.

The time difference between the two territories made it night in Iacon while Tyger Pax was only settling into early evening. Given the distance between the outpost and the intended recipients, it took some time to sort through the available transmission bands before Prowl was able to bounce the signal through Tyger Pax's main base's communications hub and piggyback it through subsequent communications towers before he was able to make contact with Iacon. He was no agent for Special Ops, and certainly no spy for Intelligence & Espionage, but Prowl's skills in discreet communication were adequate enough that his calculated chances of being intercepted were low enough to be satisfactory.

Prowl's call required the on-duty communications officer to wake Smokescreen from an early recharge and reroute the call to the tactician's quarters. Smokescreen's initial relief to see his brother alive and in almost one piece had quickly devolved into irritation when the secondary tactician realized the call was for business, not pleasure. His mood soured further when it became clear that Prowl disapproved of Smokesceen's company – two drowsy but comfortable mechs from Intelligence & Espionage. They were required to leave before Smokescreen was allowed to recount any of the pertinent information his commander was requesting.

Smokescreen did not need his own detached tactical analysis module to know the (un)likelihood of hearing from his companions again.

"...and that is pretty much sums up everything that has happened in Iacon since you left," the proxy tactician concluded flatly after feeling like he had been forced to talk for joors. It had really only been a few breems, but being with an emotionless Prowl made time feel like it slowed to a painful grind. "Can I go back to recharge now?"

"No."

Prowl watched as patience gave way to a burst of irritation. Smokescreen's hands flashed across the screen in a rude gesture. Air gushed out his vents. Prowl waited for the outburst he knew was coming.

"What else could you possibly want from me? I am running on fumes here, _commander! _I have been waiting for fortnights to hear any possible news that you are alive! At the very least, I have been waiting for news that Jazz spliced you down to your core parts and was selling you for scrap to the Neutrals! By the looks of things, he's already started!"

Prowl glanced down at the patch that had been placed over the open hole where his arm had been. He looked back at Smokescreen and said, "My arm was damaged beyond repair. The medic amputated it a few joors ago."

"_Amputated_? Primus, Prowl! What the frag have you been doing to need an arm amputated?"

"This line is not secured enough to discuss the details of our mission. When I return to Iacon, you may read the details in my report. For now, it is of no concern to you."

There was more flailing arm gestures across the screen. A mixture of incredulous sounds and cursing unbecoming of a second-in-command spewed through the speakers. His fussing was at such a volume that Prowl had no doubt that the staff of the outpost was able to hear it; if he got any louder, the medics on their ship in the docking yard out back would be able to hear. It went without saying what the bot in the rooms bordering Smokescreen's could hear.

"Calm down, Smokescreen."

"Don't tell me to calm down! Just because you can't freak out right now doesn't mean I can't! You call me in the middle of the night, dismiss my company, get me to recite to you the itinerary of our division, tell me not to worry over the fact that you are missing an arm, and I am supposed to be _calm_?"

"Yes, and I should point out that a certain amount of professionalism would not hurt either."

"ARGH!" Smokescreen exclaimed, his hands curling in front of him as if he meant to take Prowl's neck between his fingers. "Do you have any idea that this is the first time in _four orns_ that I have been able to recharge? I have been working myself to the bolts trying to keep up with everything! You left me acting as both commander _and _second-in-command! You should not be messing with me right now!"

"Be more organized," Prowl offered. "You acted in my place when I was a prisoner in Straxis. I do not see how this would be different."

A squeal came out of Smokescreen's vocal processor that was wholly inappropriate.

Pounding static came over the speakers, followed by a bellowed curse from one of Smokescreen's neighbours. Words were exchanged. Prowl did not bother to listen, only waiting until he was sure that he had his second's undivided attention. Soon enough, the ire of Iacon's Proxy Tactical Adviser waned into exhaustion; he slumped forward and stared at Prowl with dead optics. A rough hand scrubbed across his faceplate. Exhaustion dulled his normally handsome features. Armour that was normally glossy had turned scuffed and dusty from neglect.

"I am going to honest with you, Prowl. I have missed you, and I have worried for you while you've been away, but there are some parts of you I have definitely _not_ missed."

"Missing the whole, but not its parts does not make any sense."

"Tell that to a gestalt team," Smokescreen snorted. "If you had your you-know-what turned on, you'd understand exactly what I meant."

Prowl stared at his subordinate through the blue glare of the screen, his expression remaining impassive. "I know exactly what you meant. I was simply pointing out that it didn't make any sense."

"Neither does my desire to jump through the screen and hit you, but I still want to do it," Smokescreen replied, then he seemed to realize that letting his exhaustion turn to anger was going to get him nowhere. He dragged in a heavy breath of air to let it cycle through his frame, after which he appeared to find a second calm and a smidgeon of professionalism. "You've been away for too long, Prowl."

His red chevron glinted in the low light of the station's small central hub as he inclined his head. "I realize now that I have been away for too long; this was not my intention when I first left. My neglect of my own division has been pointed out to me, and my contacting you is a means of rectifying the situation."

"Better late than never, I suppose," Smokescreen sighed. "I know I have told you this before, but I hate being you. I hate being in charge of this fragging division. I don't have the same obsessive-compulsive psychotically focused drive for it as you do."

"We possess identical core programming."

"At one time, we also possessed identical frames," Smokescreen riposted with a roll of his optics. "Programming evolves; mine went one way, yours went the other. I don't have any aspirations for your function. You are welcome to it. The sooner you get back, the better."

"I can accept that," Prowl announced with a nod. "You would make a poor commander for the tactical division, comparatively speaking, despite our identical core programming."

Static blustered over the speakers with the sound of Smokescreen's disgust, his faceplate disappearing into the cup of his palms. He shook his head back and forth slowly.

"Can I go back to recharge _now_?"

"Alright, if you insist."

"_Thank you."_

"You are welcome, not that this exchange has yielded anything significant," Prowl dismissed, already reaching for the console controls. "Before we part ways, you may want to know that Kingpin is now dead. Jazz put a blade through his head. Hunter was shot in the chest and has been undergoing major surgery all orn to save him. He may still die from systemic infection."

Smokescreen's faceplate flashed in horror before Prowl cut the channel.

Overhead, the lights flickered and dimmed as if caught in a minor power surge. A small noise alerted the tactician to the presence of company, followed a mere fraction of an astrosecond later by the appearance of a spark signature as if it were an afterthought on Prowl's spark resonance scanners. The sound of the squeaky swivel on his chair was nearly obscene in the quiet of the small room. Tension shot down his spinal column when his gaze ghosted over a dark figure lurking in the darkened entryway of the command hub. Grimm blinked at him with her strangely dead-looking optics, her frame nearly fading from view between the darkness of the hallway and the flickering dimness of the command hub.

"And I thought _I_ was a monster."

A tremor ran down Prowl's spinal column. In his chest, his spark constricted tightly. Though he was not able to have an emotional response to Grimm's unusual voice, it seemed his frame was fully capable of reacting to it physically. A visceral, primitive reaction that burrowed into the unconscious and superseded logic.

Grimm canted her narrow head. She opened her mouthplates, and the room resonated deeply with the grating sound of tectonic plates grinding against each other. "But... even monsters feel things. You don't feel things, do you? Not right now, anyways."

"How long have you been standing there?" Prowl demanded, rising to his full height with a harsh jolt. "How long have you had a dampener active?"

"Dampener?" A dark optic ridge arched over a dead blue optic. There was almost humour in that gaze.

Prowl crossed the room in two long strides, pushing the medic back to hold her against the far wall of the hallway. She was so small and light, the strength of his one arm was all it took to pin her by the centre of her chest; he forced the hunch of her spinal column to snap straight with a loud crack. If it hurt, Grimm revealed nothing. Her armour was colder than the ambient temperature; not like ice, but like a corpse. His battle computer ripped a memory to the forefront, of Jazz touching him in the Poles and feeling the frigidness of his armour. A secondary memory activated: the image of Grimm hunched in the hallway of Tyger Pax base, claiming the frames of the invading Decepticons as she dragged them off for her own purposes.

There was no question that his battle computer considered Grimm a threat, but it was having trouble deciding _how_ she was a threat.

"How long were you there, Grimm?" Prowl insisted tightly.

"As long as I have been out of surgery. I thought you might have wanted to know Hunter's post-surgery status, so I waited."

"That was a private conversation you were eavesdropping on."

"Then you should have locked the door." She glanced down at the hand that pinned her. "This is uncomfortable."

"This is improper conduct between fellow commanding officers," Prowl corrected her. "However, you have currently been deigned a threat."

"Only just now?"

Prowl pressed his hand deeper into Grimm's cold chest. "I cannot decide how great of a threat you are. Until that is decided, proper conduct will not be observed. You will stay where you are."

"I have never harmed anyone who did not deserve it. Same as you, I suppose. Same as any Autobot," Grimm replied, each of her words seeming to crash through the darkness like great avalanches rife with screaming victims. "You are larger than I am, stronger, faster. What threat am I to you?"

"I do not know."

"That is not very logical of you, Prowl – fearing something you do not understand." She blinked slowly, hiding that dead stare for all but an astrosecond. The dread sound of her voice wrenched inside of his frame, an adverse physical reaction that felt as if his spark were being wrenched in a vice. He jerked away to protect himself, allowing Grimm to fall to the floor like an abandoned drone. She even rattled like empty oil cans when she hit.

"What would you know of logical? Is that what you heard Smokescreen and I discussing? Are you going to report me for my inappropriate management of my emotions?" he demanded, looming darkly over the medic, watching as she collected herself from the floor and regained her hunched shape.

"I would know very little of logical," she replied like a slow death. "I heard very little of your discussion. It does not take an eavesdropper to figure out what is wrong with you; it only takes someone of..." She paused, and then offered a smile that was better off never existing in the world. "Well, of my specific talents."

"A medic."

"With a speciality in sparks." Grimm's smile stayed in place, and the longer it stayed the more it looked like a gaping chasm into the depths of a bottomless pit. "Admittedly, your problem is all in your head, but it affects your spark all the same. A dam can only hold for so long before the pressure behind it grows too great. Cracks are inevitable. When that dam finally breaks, you might burst from the flood."

"I am functioning with acceptable parameters."

"With parameters like those, Hunter is also functioning within acceptable parameters – and I will have you know that I was forced to remove his full processor and spark to save his life," Grimm sneered wretchedly. "He is currently floating _frameless_ in the surgery bay on life-support, and he will remain like that until a new frame can be established for him. But _clearly_ he is functioning within acceptable parameters, just as you are."

"You had to remove his spark?" Prowl murmured, stepping back.

"The infection spread right down into the metal of his sparkcase. He was suffering energon poisoning, tank corrosion, widespread necrotic damage to his internal systems – it is extraordinary that he managed to hold on long enough to get here. There was damage to his processor, but his spark is undamaged; weak from haemorrhaging energy this whole time, but he will live."

"How?" Prowl pressed.

"Because I won't let him fade." Her smile finally fell into seriousness. "My speciality is sparks, after all."

"You are not like any other medic I have ever known," Prowl pointed out.

"I don't suppose I am." Grimm shrugged, looking away into the darkness of the hall. "You are not like any other tactician I have ever known. That makes us even, does it not?"

From down the hall, there came the sound of pounding footsteps. Bright optics and a familiar spark signature flew around the corner, revealing Chester as he barrelled his way through the dark. His gaze unerringly found Grimm, not liking the way Prowl appeared to be backing her into the wall. He was between them in a flash, guiding Grimm behind the wall of his frame while sizing Prowl up with a hard look.

"What in the name of Prime do you think you are doing?"

"It was nothing, Chester," Grimm intoned, laying a calming hand to the tactician's arm. "I was merely informing Prowl about Hunter."

"And that requires him to stand so close? Was his hearing damaged like his arm?"

"No," Prowl replied flatly.

"I can take care of myself. There was no need to worry," Grimm said, patting Chester's arm. Somehow, Chester was unaffected by the guttural sound of the medic's horrible voice. "Come, let us return to the ship and let Prowl get some rest for the night. He and Jazz still have a long journey to make."

Prowl continued to stare down at the strange medic, catching her subtle nod. His battle computer still deigned her as some form of unknown threat, but the statistical probably of danger to himself was dropping. Grimm would not report him for the abuse of his emotional centre, despite the fact that it would be negligent of her function. It would not be the forst secret she had ever kept.

"You will find Jazz in the generator room," she said. "He is waiting for you."

With a gentle tug on Chester's arm, Grimm left with the tactician by her side.

Grimm's shadow, on the other hand, followed along several steps behind – out of sync with the owner, and seeming to walk backwards so as to keep an optic on Prowl.

* * *

Jazz's impatience was nearly palpable when Prowl pushed open the door to the generator room and spied his partner pacing next to the far wall.

"Ya know Ah hate waiting," snapped the silver bot.

"You hate being alone," Prowl corrected.

"Semantics," Jazz sneered.

Prowl huffed a breath of air out of his vents, letting it serve as his non-answer.

In a rush of quicksilver, Jazz was suddenly standing in front of him. The lack of visor made his optics stand out like bright beacons; gaze sharper than blades made of diamonds.

"That medic did a good job rewiring ya," the saboteur commented, taking his time to lean away.

"Yes, he did."

Jazz glanced upward to the ceiling that was little more than raw pyrite from the cliff where the outpost sat. Then his gaze returned with the same diamond-edged intensity. "Why were ya up there so long?"

"I needed to speak with Smokescreen." Prowl stepped out from under the direct line of Jazz's scrutiny, making his way around one of the large, humming generators. There were only two of them, both old and basic in design. Their noise was loud, but not loud enough as to muffle their conversation. They threw off enough heat as to make the room warmer than the level above, but not so much as to evaporate the air out of the room and make it uncomfortable.

"So ya spoke with him?

"Yes."

Jazz was moving as well, moving as a mirror to Prowl. He slipped along the shadows of the opposite wall, making no noise discernible above the steady hum of the machines between them.

They came to the far wall at the same time, turning to each other. Prowl stared down at the makeshift berth that had been put together. It was a single berth of moderate condition, likely snatched from the Paxian medical ship. Several disinfected polyurethane covers were piled on top, also stolen from the medical cache aboard the ship. Soft covers with a silicone filling, meant to cushion injured bots so that their own weight did not do them damage. They had been gathered for Prowl's own comfort, as well as Jazz's.

Jazz walked over to the pile of nonsense he had gathered together, the tip of his foot nudging one of the polyurethane covers.

"Ah'll give them back in the morning. When we're done with them."

"You gathered them for tonight?"

Jazz sent him a look like Prowl was halfway stupid.

"Of course Ah got them for tonight. If we're gonna do what Ah promised we were gonna do, Ah don't want ta be thrashing around all over the floor, scratching up mah paint and ruining mah gloss. Ya got a lot of baggage up there that needs unpacking and, Ah'm not gonna lie, it's probably gonna hurt both of us."

Prowl nodded, closing the distance between himself and the berth on the floor. He crouched down and lifted one of the covers, testing its weight and durability between his fingers. It was blue. Another was black. Standard colours that would hide the evidence of energon stains. He could feel the gel-like consistency of the silicone inside.

"This was a good precaution," he said.

"Ah thought so," Jazz shrugged. He came within arm's reach of Prowl, close enough that the tactician felt the shift in the air. A silver hand reached out, as if meaning to touch him.

"You are still missing one of your fingers," Prowl noted.

The hand fell back to its owner's side. "The joints are completely stripped," Jazz lamented. "Ratchet is gonna have ta put it back on when we get home."

"I see."

Jazz heaved a sigh and sat down on the berth, pushing his back against the wall. With the hand that was still missing a finger, he beckoned Prowl to sit next to him. Prowl accepted the invitation, grimacing as his back laid against the lukewarm wall and irritated his doorwings. They sat quietly until Prowl picked up Jazz's hand to examine it. The claws were ground down to nothing, and the knuckles still showed significant damage; Jazz had managed only to clean and set them straight. Everything else would have to heal and grow back in its own time.

"What did ya talk with Smokescreen about?" the saboteur wondered.

"The status of my division, among other things," Prowl replied, bending each of Jazz's fingers in turn to watch the mechanics move. The hand did not look right without the usual diamond-treated claws. "We established I have no sense of social etiquette."

"Ah thought we already established that earlier?" Jazz snorted.

"Perhaps we did," Prowl conceded with a shrug.

"The longer ya keep your centre turned off, the harder it is ta be around ya. It's like ya start deleting bits and pieces of your social etiquette data files ta make room for ways that ya can be an aft ta other bots."

"As opposed to you, who never had social etiquette files to begin with."

Jazz laughed one of his rare, honest laughs that was only enhanced by the smooth drone of the generators. "Even when ya have no sense of humour, ya still have a sense of humour." A playful elbow nudged Prowl in the side.

The tactician sighed through his vents. He had the vague sense of being left out because he did not have the ability to laugh. It was best that he change the subject. "I also encountered Grimm before coming down here."

Jazz sat up straighter, taking his hand back into his own lap. "Did ya ask her about what she did with those two Decepticons she dragged away?"

"No." In hindsight, that would have been an excellent question to pose to her.

White optics shone brightly as they perused Prowl's frame. An optic ridge arched. "Did she try to eat your spark?"

"She informed me of Hunter's status. He will need to be reformatted, but in the meantime he is on frame-separated life-support."

"Ouch. Did she say if he would make it?"

"She said she would not let his spark fade."

"Sounds like a good enough guarantee ta meh." Jazz was careful to lean his weight against Prowl's good shoulder. An impish smile taunted at the corners of his mouthplates. "And then did she try to eat your spark?"

Prowl revved deeply in his chest, knowing that when his emotional centre came back on the first thing that would probably hit him would be the irritation he was supposed to be feeling now.

"She did not try to eat my spark, because she is not a spark-eater. There is no such thing as spark-eaters. There has never been such thing as a spark-eater, nor will there ever be anything like a spark-eater."

"Ah know that," Jazz snorted, and then arched his optic ridges conspiratorially. "But does _she_ know that?"

"_Jazz."_

Another brief burst of laughter blended into the hum of the generators, settling into quiet chuckles. "Ya would have laughed if ya had your emotions."

Prowl frowned in consideration. "Maybe."

Jazz cycled air through is vents, his faceplate creasing into frown lines. "We're stalling, aren't we?"

"I do not know of many bots who intentionally seek out pain," Prowl reasoned.

"The Twins are special like that," Jazz joked, but it was a lame joke that he only breathed a humoured noise for.

"We shouldn't put this off any longer," Prowl sighed. "How do you propose we go about this?"

"Lower the lights, get comfortable, start with a little foreplay...?"

"Jazz, really. I meant how do you mean to connect with me without an interfacial port?"

Jazz harrumphed, shifting around in the nest of covers. "Ah'll crack your head open, find mahself a decent motherboard ta hook up ta, stick mah cable into your head, switch on your centre, and hold on for the ride."

Prowl touched the side of his head, feeling around for the crease he knew was there. He tapped it when he found it. "You can connect right here. Do you still have those tools you were working with to repair your fingers?"

Jazz was already reaching into subspace for his tools, choosing the smallest one with the most delicate head to deal with the small screws that kept the armour on Prowl's head anchored. His hands were gentle as they guided him down into Jazz's lap, turning him the right way so bolts painted storm grey would show up in the light. The seal of the paint cracked with the motions of the screwdriver.

"The things Ah do for ya, Prowl."

Prowl kept his gaze on the floor, contemplating what was about to happen. Bracing himself was what he was about to feel. He listened as the seal between armour slates cracked open. It was hard to describe the feeling of lukewarm air rushing into his opened cranial cavity, or the feeling of careful fingers reaching in to poke aside innards to get to the proper motherboard.

Jazz's interface panel cracked open with a soft hiss. "Give meh a second ta adapt the connector. It's been a while since Ah've dug into any bot's head like this."

"I understand."

The trans-scan was cool against the side of his head, barely a touch at all except for the awareness of the ghost-like caress. From the periphery, Prowl watched as the tip of Jazz's cable broke apart and rearranged with expert grace. The saboteur scanned the cable just to be sure of it, holding it in comparison to the motherboard. His white gaze was as exacting as a surgeon's. With his free hand, he traced the sharp edge of Prowl's chevron.

"This first part isn't gonna hurt, but the rest of it will. Shut down your vocal processor. If ya can shut down motor control to your lower-half, it will keep ya from thrashing badly."

"I can do that." He was already in the process of doing it. His lower half went numb, limp; he stared down at the appendages, and they were like strangers attached to him. His vocal processor powered down, muting him for the time being.

A sigh drifted from Jazz's vents. He slipped his cable into Prowl's head and let the connector do what it had been made to do; it touched the circuitry of Prowl's main motherboard and latched on like a space-barnacle. There was no pleasantly detached feeling as there was with connecting the traditional way. This was sharp and invasive, instantly bracing like a blast from a sandblaster. Jazz's presence was undeniable, larger than life within the incorporeal realm of the mind; he was a whirlwind, a dervish of thoughts, schemes, plots, and possibilities.

No longer willing to put off the inevitable, Prowl lit the way through his synapses for Jazz to find his centre. The saboteur's touch was like fire upon a raw neural circuit. His fingers clenched in silver armour, gouging the paint.

"Sorry," Jazz sighed, working at Prowl's fingers until he let go. He wriggled until he lay parallel with his partner, so that they lay equal with each other. Through the connection, it was no secret that Jazz wanted to see Prowl's faceplate. Not to enjoy the pain, but so that he could acknowledge it. He was about to be a part of it, and somehow seeing it made sense to him.

Prowl shuttered his optics, falling limp against the soft catch of the polyurethane covers. Jazz's presence became stronger within his mind as the saboteur built up the data syphon that would buffer the backlash. It was a bridge between them, where the unstoppable force met the immoveable object; an impossible, powerful, unfathomable place, like the eye of a storm. The spark of a plasma reactor. The singular moment when a star went super nova; they met in the place where perfect discord met harmony.

Jazz picked up on that particular thought, chuckling softly at it.

"Where you and Ah collide," he murmured. "Ah like it."

_Of course you do_, Prowl thought, knowing full well that his partner could hear him.

Jazz watched him with a sad smile, something like regret floating around his features. He reached out, running the tips of his fingers from Prowl's shoulder, down his side, ending at his hip. Where he touched, there was a magnetic pulse to sooth the tension, a lacklustre gesture. His hand dropped between them like a dead weight.

"Ya ready?"

A tentative nod was given.

After that, no warning was given. No countdown, no time to brace himself. Jazz's mind reached in and flicked the switch as easily as some might turn on a light. There was emptiness on the other side of them dam, just a yawning blackness as tension mounted. Sensation teetered at the precipice; emotion was there, so suddenly surprised by its freedom that it did not move right away into an avalanche.

For a single, fleeting moment, Prowl opened his optics to see Jazz and felt the deepest gratitude for the one creature in all the wretched universe who was brave enough, and stupid enough, to do this for him. Prowl could live for as many lifetimes as Jazz and still never encounter someone quite like the saboteur. His one good arm curved around silver shoulders in silent solidarity, drawing their frames close until their personal fields mingled. Prowl's forehead pressed against Jazz's.

And then everything came rushing at him at once.

There came a sudden whooshing in his audios like he were plummeting in free fall, but the ephemeral wind that whipped through his frame did not bring with it the balm of a cold touch. Instead, it was hot. Burning. It was fire and acid, a sandblaster of superheated plasma blasting through his frame with wanton abandon. The physical manifestation of so many unfelt emotions hitting him at once, each one bleeding into the other, screaming to be heard, clawing at him from the inside to be acknowledged.

Regret. Shame. Disgust. Helplessness. Irritation.

Fear. Horror. Frustration. Despair. Shock.

Rage. Fury. Bitterness. Impotence. Powerlessness.

Hate.

Self-hate.

**Hate. Hate. Hate.**

Always the strongest to be felt, hate choked him. Swallowed him whole. It was always there, festering, given reason to exist through every failure ever conceived. The blackness of it touched him deep, hooked onto his softest parts, and spread like the disease it was. His constant companion and personal poison.

If not for his muted vocal processor, the entire outpost would have shook with the force of his scream. As it was, only stormy static spewed from his mouthplates, shortly followed by the wet contents of his tanks. He did not even possess the sense of mind to turn his head, having the energon spill out across the covers and coat the set of silver armour anchoring him to the berth. Though is lower half was paralysed, his spine bent at such a violent angle that his upper half twisted until the points of his chevron scratched paint from the backs of his legs.

He force of the convulsions might have been enough to snap him in half, if not for the strong arms that locked tight around him. The distant burn of clawless fingers digging madly into the flailing of armour in a desperate attempt to get him under control before he hurt himself. In a strange part of his mind, Prowl suddenly knew why Jazz had ground down his claws to nothing rather than shape them back into small points to let them grow back; he had wanted to make sure he didn't hurt Prowl, not even accidentally.

Maybe there was shouting in the distance, coming from upstairs? Out in the hall? It was echoing, but familiar. His audios were not working properly, except to pick up the sudden roar of his energon rushing in all directions. He was suddenly boiling from the inside out, pressure gauges going wild. Gases released into pressurized systems until nearly all of his frame was heaving, bloating, convulsing with wild swings. And still, through the bellowing roar of white noise, there was a shouting voice that faded in and out as if it were a poorly tuned station.

"_Damn ya, Prowl! Just hold on!"_

Prowl realized it was all inside his head. There was no noise within the generator room except for the loud hum of the generators and the thrashing creaking of frames that bucked and clung to one another. It was Jazz's voice inside his head, clinging to him with mental claws, shouting words over and over in hopes to be heard over the never-ending eruption. Hoping for them both in a way that Jazz likely had never bothered to hope in a long time... if ever.

From within his chassis, a fire had been lit with the fury of the backlash. His spark contracted in the grips of a vice, squeezing tight under a white-hot pressure. Like the gravitational grips of a white-dwarf, squeezing the blazing glory of a star smaller and smaller until there was no living force in the universe that could get close without being crushed to death from the pull. It felt as if Prowl himself were collapsing in on himself, his frame crushing smaller and smaller into the black hole of a thousand horrible black suns that had opened up in his sparkcase.

To his audios, it sounded like the great crack of a solid dam giving way under immense pressure. A terrible, sudden sound like the crack of lightning or the blast of a gun next to an audio. It was deep and loud, easily felt as much as it was heard. The failure of steel and re-enforcements, bulkheads and bolts. A lifetime worth of a dam built up, now crumbling with savage force. Gaping holes opened up; jagged cracks as raw as screaming wounds, opened to the free air. A lifetime of things held back for fear of them, disgust for them, no time for them, and here they were with no reins to hold them back.

True to Grimm's warning, Prowl burst.

A single shining singularity amongst the whirling darkness.

Though his vocal processor was mute, he still found a way to scream.

Jazz's faceplate was a myriad of movement, never once settling for long on a single expression. How could he? With the world's biggest headache filtering through his processor, he could barely remember what his own designation was. An avalanche of data was bursting through the buffer at a speed that rivalled light, threatening to collapse the forged mental bridge between them. Jazz gritted the hinges of his jaw and braced himself against the storm, digging in with everything he had just so he wasn't thrown out. If he let go now, he fear what might become of Prowl's mind.

There was so much sensory information for it to be nearly impossible to process it all. Too much for one mech, nearly too much for two. It was not just the cacophony of emotions that clashed and screamed, but the fabric of memory and experience. Jazz saw the world through Prowl's optics for brief, dizzying flashes. The sharpness of the angles and lines around him, the finality of every observation. A world of logical structure and order; a black and white cut, no room for grey. And Jazz saw faceplates of the past, some he knew and others he did not. He heard the echoes of voices ringing inside his head.

Jazz did not attempt to cling to anything. Not the memories or the faceplates or the voices. If he latched on, they were powerful enough to drag him away and he might not be able to find his way back to his own mind. He let it all blow past him, using his presence, his mind, as a twisting, turning filter through which the force of the gale would be absorbed and lessened. He did not have the power to stop it, which is why he did not even try. All he could do was let it pass him by and hope that he was enough to be what Prowl needed at the moment.

A surprised shout came from his mouthplates as a sudden vice locked around his neck. He heard the bursting of bolts from the armour inside his head. The grip was powerful, choking, but the hand was shaking uncontrollably. Prowl's hand, clinging to him, trying to find a solid anchor when everything else was thrown into the storm. Jazz let himself be choked, let himself be the odd anchor in the festering storm, because that it was he had promised to do. One of his hands pressed to the centre of Prowl's back, between the doorwings, gripping beneath the armour. The other moved restlessly down the back of Prowl's head, up and down, up and down, steady despite the epileptic fits the tacticians was suffering.

Prowl did feel that calming touch, but could not recall if it was the memory of a touch or the thought of being touched like that in the future. To him, the present had become hazy and out of sync. His chronometer, if he bothered to check it, would have been flashing him error signs rather than the time. In fact, many of his systems would have been doing the same. His vision swam like the tides upon a shore, ebbing in and out of focus. The motion made his tanks roil once more, spilling over the rest of their contents to the lukewarm air of the generator room. He heard the sound of liquid splashing against a solid surface.

A persistent rattling filled the room, which Prowl quickly learned was himself. He was shaking, unable to bring himself to stop. Everything inside his frame ached, so much so that he suspected even the air inside him felt sore. Frame parts had loosened from his seizures. Vents heaving, wet sounds gurgling from within from energon lines that had burst from the pressure. Memories, thoughts, and emotions ran amok in his cranium like escaped convicts, rioting through data streams and setting fire to everything they touched.

Despite the anarchy that raged, he was aware of himself once again.

It felt like an eon had been taken from him.

Or a weight had been lifted.

Still, within him ran black torrents that ravaged through his psyche, threatening to pull him into the undercurrent if he did not tread hard enough. The affects of the backlash would continue for several orns to come. Prowl knew he would need to be on guard, careful with himself lest he be dragged under and too weak to pull himself back. Yet his head stayed above the undertow, clear enough to recall his designation and what he was doing on the floor. Lucidity returned in a great enough amount to recall that he had a certain bot to thank.

Jazz rightly sensed the shift in Prowl's demeanour, taking it as his cue to finally release him.

"That wasn't so bad," he coughed hoarsely, sounding as if he had run his vocal processor through a gravel pit. "Ah've had worse."

_It is the worst that I have ever felt it_, _but it did not last as long as I thought it would_, Prowl admitted through their continued connection. Without even needing to do a self-diagnostic, he knew his vocal processor would need the night before it could be turned back on. _I would not have been able to do that without you._

"Ah was just the buffer. Ya did all the hard work yourself," Jazz assured roughly. He grunted when he managed to disconnect his arms from around Prowl's frame, having nearly fused together after holding on so tightly.

Prowl laid unmoving upon the covers, staring at his partner as if seeing him for the first time. _I have been terrible to bots._

"They'll get over it."

_I am in your debt, Jazz._

White optics rolled in their sockets. "It's what Ah do. Ah save your aft, and some orn you'll save mine."

_Thank you._

"Don't mention it," Jazz replied a little too quickly, sitting up to gather the soiled covers from beneath him and toss them away. "You're probably exhausted. Get some recharge." He reached for his cable to disconnect.

_Don't_, Prowl murmured, staying Jazz's hand mid-air.

Questions shone in the saboteur unsure gaze, though no sound came from his mouthplates or his mind.

Prowl fell back weakly to the berth, staring at the ceiling so that he did not have to see that faceplate. _I am worried what might happen if I let my guard down while recharging._

"Ya want meh ta keep buffering?"

_Just until morning,_ Prowl sighed. _Please. I know it is a lot to ask-_

"It's not." Jazz settled back down on the berth, also turning to stare at the ceiling. He was clearly in discomfort, even while he said, "It ain't so bad. It doesn't hurt so much, once ya get used ta it."

* * *

_Prowl preferred to work late at night, when the Tactical Officer's workspace was mostly empty. Tacticians were the few officers who were not required to have bots on duty for the orn and night. The later the time of the night, the emptier their workspace tended to be; it was quiet, devoid of distraction, and Prowl found that these were the best conditions to get work done. _

_At the far end of the room, the door was kicked open and a small, storm-grey figure whirled in amidst laughter and colour. _

"_Come back, Evasia! Don't bother him! You know Prowl doesn't like it when we bother him!" other officers call from the hall, beckoning to her even as the femme ignored them. When their many entreaties to her failed, they sighed and closed the door. Best leave her to her own devices and let her get herself in and out of trouble with her cohort. _

_Prowl attempted to ignore the dervish, only to fail when it drew closer and threw a burst of confetti into the air. _

"_Oh Prowl, you should have come with us!" Evasia exclaimed, jumping into the confetti to blow it around and swirl her arms through the storm of colour. "The stunt troupe was amazing! The way they moved and all the tricks they did! It defied all the Laws of Physics, I swear! You might have enjoyed yourself, trying to use logic to figure everything out!" _

"_I do not experience joy," Prowl replied, brushing away the confetti on his desk before returning to his work. It was not necessarily his work, but he had happened to read one of Smokescreen's reports and did not like it, so he was rewriting it. Ever since Smokescreen had decided to embrace the realm of emotions, he was getting too emotive in his reports. Too sloppy._

"_I don't see why not! Joy is wonderful! And so is awe and excitement and laughter!" She threw her arms wide, displaying the temporary paint she donned over her regulation Security Response decals. Decorations for her night out in the city, bright smears of pink and yellow and blue and green. She was best complimented by the greens, which matched her chevron. Her laughter echoed pleasantly off the walls, as did the sound of her tapping feet as she danced and wriggled. _

"_Emotions are a waste of time," Prowl explained. "They make us lose our objectivity. Our efficiency as Security Response officers drops. Power hierarchies become replaced with social hierarchies. Logic is replaced with madness, irrationality, and absurdity – the very things that we work to prevent in this city. Order will disintegrate into anarchy, and it will be the end of our society as we know it." _

_Evasia stood stunned for a moment before regaining her wits. "That was amazing, Prowl." _

"_It is a distinct possibility for our future." _

_A colourful hip leaned into the desk, flaking off bits of paint. "One of many possibilities, Prowl. The majority of Cybertron's citizens have basic functioning emotions, and our world has not plunged into chaos yet." _

"_Yet." He flicked the bits of paint away before they smeared into the finish of his desk. "There remains a statistical probability of such a future happening." _

_The femme shook her head. "What am I going to do with you, Prowl? You have got to be the silliest bot I have ever met. If I did not know that you had no sense of humour, I would say you were among the funniest of all the officers here." _

"_If I had any emotions at all, I suspect that I would feel very irritated at the moment," Prowl said. _

"_At least that would be something!" Evasia laughed, once again whirling and twirling around. She had streamers attached to her arms and head, flapping in a breeze of her own making. Stickers with the Simfur stunt troupe's decals were plastered up and down her back and over her sleek doorwings. She called him silly, but she was the one who best resembled the remark. _

_Prowl could only stand to watch her for an astrosecond before dismissing her. "What will it take to make you go away, Evasia? I am trying to work." _

_She skidded to a halt, her mouthplates pursing. "You are always working, Prowl. That is all you have in life. Work. Work. Work. While Kingpin, Hunter, Smokescreen and I are out there enjoying our lives, you are stuck here! There are so many things in life you are missing out on because you refuse to try something new!"_

"_My life is adequate as it is. I need nothing more." _

"_You only think that because you don't know any better." She touched his cheek, leaving behind a smear of paint that had yet to dry. "Haven't you ever been curious? Is there not a part of your mind that tells you that you would better be able to understand and relate to your fellow Cybertronians if you could feel as they feel? How can we be of one programming, and yet be so terribly different?"_

_Prowl pinched her fingers between his own to politely guide her touch away from his faceplate. "I have considered what it would be like to experience emotion. I have been curious of what humour is. There are occasions when I wonder what makes bots laugh. What makes them cry. What makes them love. But it is all insignificant, Evasia. There are far more important things in the world than indulging in useless agendas."_

_Light glittered on the diamond of Evasia's optical lenses, setting her warm blue gaze to sparkle. Her fingers wrapped tight around the hand that held her. "There is nothing useless about love, Prowl." _

_Prowl frowned, releasing her. "I will ask this again, Evasia: what will it take to make you go away?" _

_She leaned back, her expression turning shrewd. For all the emotion she had learnt since coming online, she was still gifted with the same core programming as any tactical officer in the Security Response. She could be as cold and calculating as the best of them.  
_

"_A smile," she suddenly bid._

"_A smile?" Prowl parroted carefully. _

_Evasia leaned into the desk, looming over Prowl with a smile of her own. This close, he could see that she was inebriated. The smell of high-grade clung to her as a fine veil. She had imbibed throughout the evening, but only enough to make her tipsy. The majority of her faculties were still obviously with her, just a little looser than normal. _

"_Just one little smile," she coaxed, "so I can finally see what you look like when you smile." _

"_I would look exactly the same as I do now." _

"_You never know until you try," she needled, leaning so close that their olfactory sensors almost touched. "I will make it my goal in life to make you smile if you do not do it right now for me." _

_Reasonably speaking, a smile was not a gateway gesture into emotions. One could, in theory, smile without feeling a thing. It was a mere curving of the mouthplates, after all. A movement which required very little effort or thought. Though it was a foreign gesture, Prowl bid his mouthplates to move. He was surprised the hinges in his faceplate did not creak from disuse. It took some effort to force the metal plates into the proper position, tacked to stay that way through sheer force of will.  
_

_The end result was a smile that was forced and fake, brittle and devoid of any warmth. _

"_Oh," Evasia breathed, clearly disappointed. Prowl had been right; he looked no different now than he did before. She reached out to touch the smile, only to have her hand intercepted by a larger one. Prowl tugged her away, miscalculating her balance with the strength of his pull, accidentally pulling her feet out from under her. _

_She gasped, and then squealed when the floor rushed up to meet her. _

_Given that his sober reflexes were much sharper than her inebriated ones, Prowl yanked the femme back up by her arm to spare her the indignity of smashing into the floor. Yet another unfortunate miscalculation. Suddenly she was splayed uncomfortably across his lap. Her arm was bent to the side where Prowl still had her hand caught in his grasp, while her chest arched up with an awkward curve to meet his. Their olfactory sensors were nearly touching again. One of her legs was braced by the knee against his chair, between his own legs, and her other leg had somehow hitched over the armrest. _

_For longer than either of them deemed necessary, they could not move except to blink dazedly in between staring. Prowl could not understand how things had gone so wrong. He could not figure out how she had landed so awkwardly in his lap. It was improper of him to have handled her so roughly, so he opened his mouth to issue an apology in case he hurt her, but stopped when Evasia spoke first. _

"_Well," she breathed. "You certainly know how to sweep a femme off her feet." _

_Perhaps it was because the statement was so literally true that Prowl understood a joke for the first time, or that the joke was so absurdly true that it caused a glitch in his processor, but suddenly there was a glimmer of warmth inside him that he had not felt before. It was there, in his chassis, around the place where his spark generally sat. He felt a change, a brief one, and for the first time he saw a shade of grey in his black and white world. Storm-grey, and she was covered in paint and sprawled across his lap. _

_The stiff smile on his faceplate took on new qualities. It relaxed around the edges, warmed in the lines of his normally impartial faceplate, and looked wholly sincere as he stared down at the femme who continued to sprawl across him with wanton illogicality. And there, from his vents, huffed a soft sound that was not quite a laugh... but it was a start. _

_Evasia's face lit up like the glory of the sun had touched her. Both hands came to frame Prowl's faceplate, holding him captive as she looked her fill of his transformation. There was nothing unique about his design; he was one bot among dozens who shared the exact same frame with the extra same dimensions and details. But that smile! Oh, that smile! It was as unique as the spark that he hid so well. He was more handsome for the rarity of such a smile! _

"_I feel as if I have waited forever to see a smile like that." _

_The smile disappeared as quickly as it came. Prowl's usual impassive expression returned, almost to shield him from the newness of his smile. _

_Evasia continued to grin beatifically. "That wasn't so bad, was it? I bet it barely hurt." _

"_There was discomfort," Prowl admitted, helping Evasia to her feet when he decided her time on his lap was done. _

_She did not go far from him. Instead, she pressed her forehead to his, a gesture of affection she had never offered him before. Her touch was gentle as she pet him as if to sooth an ache he did not know he had. Her voice was soft and sweet as she whispered delightedly in his audio. _

"_It's okay, you know? To feel. It doesn't hurt so much, once you get used to it." _


	42. Chapter 42

Slow chapter is slow. Because I said so. Let the poor bots settle in before I start hurting them again.

Major thanks to all the reviewers of the last chapter: **Nikkie2010, Gamemice, DemonSurfer, Chistarpax, Cybela, CNightJoy, IBrokeThe4thWall, ennui deMorte, optimus bob, Searece, Exactlywhat, NarianOpal, Faecat, Knocks, Kidara, renegadewriter8, VyxenSkye, SunlightOnTheWater, Daklog73, Qwertzu, Peacewish, Wanderling, Fianna9, Alathea2, Prowls-little-hetalian, rlylost, SweetIndigo, Ano-Hitori-Chichi, JenEvan, Haag, lodelco, Queen of the Red Skittles, Sideslip, LucasVN, Agent Or4ng3, Phoenicem Argentum, Guest, brohne, HorseLover314, electro moonlight, Jessie07, femme4jack, SwedishDragon,** and **evilbunny777**. I love and appreciate you all for your enthusiasm and insight, your occasional fangirling (or fanboying), and definitely your thoughtfulness. =P

**Where You and I Collide  
Chapter 42**

There never was a sight in all the known universe more welcome than the sight of home after a long absence.

Iacon was a jewel in the sea of night. Spotlights roamed the wastelands beyond fortified walls, crisscrossing like white ribbons through the dark. Glittering windows and small red beacons outshone the stars, beckoning wayward travellers toward warmth and respite offered within the walls. The twist and turn of satellites, scanners, and sensors perched on every imaginable corner reflected light like the flashing spin of distant quasars. Through the star-spattered sky, moving lights darted here and there as flight-capable Autobots performed laps around the courtyards in place of recharge that would not come to them this night.

Prowl sat back in his seat to admire as his home grew large on the front display screen.

"Looks good, don't it?" Jazz intoned airily, similarly easing back to watch the details of Iacon unfold. "Ah mean, it's not the best looking place Ah've ever been ta, but..." He made a gesture in the air when the exact words failed to come to him.

"Nobody tries to kill you here anymore?" Prowl offered lightly.

"Yeah, that," the saboteur chuckled. "That's good enough, Ah guess. How about ya? You've lived here longer."

"I am relieved to be home," Prowl replied quietly. "I am not as adventurous as you are. I am eager to be back to my duties, to restore some order back into my life. It will be nice to have a proper schedule again. It has been horrid without one."

At the mentioning of a 'schedule', Jazz made a noise of disgust with a twisted expression to match.

Prowl laughed at his partner's antics, the sound coming to him easily and freely. Their small ship filled with the handsome sound, briefly disguising Putter-Poof's death throes as the poor ship chugged and sputtered the last leg of their journey. Jazz dropped his rotten expression to match his partner's laughter. When the ship's console started bleating pathetically, they managed to tone down their unusual bout of humour to mild chuckling while Blaster's familiar figure took shape on the activated screen. Seeing the red microbot reminded Prowl that he needed to get his damaged colour perception circuits replaced.

"Well, well," said the microbot, grinning broadly. "Look at you two strangers! Didn't think I'd ever see you light up my screens again!"

Prowl cleared his vents and tried for a business-like air. "This is ICOM-7 requesting entrance into Iacon Stronghold airspace-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know what you're looking for. It's always business with you, isn't it?" Blaster's clever fingers were already dancing across his consoles. Lights reflected across the shiny surface of his bright red armour, lighting up the excited grin splitting his features. "There. Done. You'll be heading for Hangar 2. I've alerted Ratchet to your arrival, so he'll meet you on the ground." His gaze strayed to Prowl's shoulder, with it's distinct lack of an appendage. One optic ridge arched. "Had fun, I take it?"

"Enough _fun_ to last a lifetime," Prowl replied flatly.

"I bet," was the dry reply. "Smokescreen's been driving me and my division crazy trying to find out when you'd get back."

Prowl flinched, and then was quick to hide his expression behind an impassive mask. "I might have been mildly untactful when closing my last communiqué with him."

"Smokescreen's been quiet about the details. I just know he wants you back," Blaster shrugged, posing a sly look at the screen. "Look... I am not admitting that my division gossips, and we especially don't encrypt gossip to each other between bases when we're bored, but...if we _did_ do slag like that, I'd say I've heard some _insane_ stuff being talked about."

"You know better than to listen to rumours," Prowl admonished. "You are the commander of your division. You should set a better example."

Blaster was entirely unrepentant. "I wasn't admitting to anything. It was all hypothetically speaking. But, you know, on that same hypothetical train, there better be an interesting report coming from you soon to entertain me so I don't go making all the gossiping and rumours worse – you know, not that my division does that sort of thing." He winked.

"_Blaster,"_ Prowl warned tightly.

"Same old Prowl. Primus, I think I missed you while you were gone!" Blaster laughed. "You should have called ahead so more of us could be online for your homecoming. It's been hard on all the bases since Tyger Pax's attack. Seems like we haven't had good news in a long time."

"We heard about the attack," Prowl intoned with a frown.

"The Decepticons got us good with that one. Things are a mess – we could use your special touch on things, Prowl," Blaster admitted. "Believe me when I say we have only been getting a joor or two of recharge around here, but even so – if we had known you were coming, there would have been a welcome party for you." Glittering blue optics slid to the quiet silver minibot watching the conversation from the pilot's seat. Blaster inclined his head to him. "_Both_ of you."

Jazz revved deeply. "It's fine, Blaster. Let them get what rest they can. Primus only knows what kind of trouble Ah'm gonna bring now that Ah'm back." He flashed a devilish grin, only slightly forced.

Blaster threw his head back and roared a laugh that was as genuine as it sounded desperately needed.

Prowl rolled his optics. "Are we done here, or are we going to continue socializing?"

"We're done," Blaster assured, shaking his head. "When you see Ratchet, get him to check out your vocal processor, Prowl. I don't know if it's my speakers or the way you're talking, but you got a mild catch on your words."

"It's the speakers," Prowl replied quickly, cancelling the channel. He let a soft sigh out of his vents. "I didn't think he would notice."

"He's trained ta pick up on auditory discrepancies. He wouldn't be doing his job right if he couldn't," Jazz replied casually, checking Putter-Poof's power output and adjusting their flight path.

Around them, the ship released a groan that somehow sounded like the last request of a tortured spark begging for the end to come. Putter-Poof shuddered, engines guttering out before sputtering back to life, barely catching them from a free fall. By all means, the ship should have died several orns ago. It was by sheer tenacity and the power of the illegal drug pumping through its systems that Putter-Poof chugged on. The drug, energizer, had been a gift from Live-wire and passed on through Chester; designed as a powerful stimulant for bots, it had been made illegal shortly before the war due to its unfortunate side-effects on living systems. It was not, however, illegal to use on machinery. The jump start supplied by the energizer had inspired Putter-Poof to work better than it ever had in the entirety of its Autobot career.

The only downside of energizer was that it had one pit of a burnout rate, and the ship was now coming down from its high.

Prowl no longer had the spark to be concerned for his impending doom now that his thoughts had veered off into worrisome territory. Though it had been a fortnight since turning his emotional centre back on, there still remained a stilted catch in his voice. It was taking an unusually long time to settle back into himself. That in itself was not bothersome to Prowl compared to the risk that someone might figure out what the anomaly meant.

Jazz glanced over from the controls, sighed, and gave his partner a light shove. "Stop that. You're thinking too loud again."

"I cannot help it, both thinking too loud and the thoughts that plague me."

"We've been over this, Prowl."

"Yes, I know, but no matter how many times we discuss it, I still worry."

"Ya mean ya still drive yourself crazy thinking about it over and over and over." For emphasis, Jazz flicked him in the side of the head – the centre of their problems. "Let it go, will ya? Instead of obsessing about all the little details of everything that could possibly go wrong, just accept it and move on."

"Says the minibot obsessed with taking Shockwave down by himself," Prowl snorted.

"Ah'm not by mahself right now, am I?" Jazz retorted smugly.

Prowl rolled his optics. "Only because I invited myself along on this mission and would not take 'no' for an answer."

"Such a stubborn aft," Jazz cursed airily. "No one is gonna notice any of your little quirks. That's just stuff ya see because ya know it's there. Ya forget that most bots aren't exactly as observant as Ah am, or as anally detail-oriented as ya are. Few bots even know that ya can turn your centre off and on. This isn't new ta ya, Prowler."

"There always exists the possibility of someone figuring it out. I cannot risk that sort of weakness." Prowl stared down at his lap, where his one hand curled into an impotent fist. "In the past, I have been careful. The effects of the backlash have never lasted this long, nor have they been this... _obvious. _If Blaster can pick up on it, who else might?"

Jazz drummed his fingertips against his armrest, frowning down at the consoles. He shuttered his optics, tilting his head back to think. "Okay, Ah got an offer for ya. On the off chance that someone does happen ta figure out that the near-imperceptible hitch in your voice is actually a remnant of emotional backlash, Ah'll hunt them down and wipe their memories. Ah'll make it so they never think of ya again. Ah'll keep your secret safe."

"Jazz..."

The saboteur pressed his suit with mocking eagerness. "Ah'll do it ta as many bots as ya need, free of charge. Mostly. Okay, Ah might charge ya for some, but the first one will be free."

"You are awful. Absolutely horrible," Prowl admonished without any true heat in the words.

"Not denying it," Jazz chuckled.

A sigh drifted from the tactician's vents, shivering under the watchful caress of Jazz's intent gaze. "But..."

"But?"

"Thank you for the offer, but no thank you."

Jazz quirked a shoulder, his mouthplates playing in a subtle smile. "You'll never take meh up on it."

"No, I never will. In the event that someone figures it out, I will handle it on my own."

A knowing smirk was the only reply.

Prowl rubbed the patch on his shoulder with the opposite hand, mindful of the sensitivity that still lingered. His faceplate did not flicker from its concerned expression. Try as he might to dismiss the notions of self-doubt, it was disconcertingly difficult to quiet them. Negative self-reflection was a personal demon he was unable to shed.

In the new silence of the ship, Jazz huffed a quiet laugh and turned his full attention to the controls. The moment he switched into manual control, the bulkheads sagged and relief flooded through the atmosphere. As they passed over the high walls and courtyards that comprised Iacon, puttering over squat compounds and taller administration buildings. Jets bearing the Autobot insignia came alongside their ship, shouting welcomes that were nearly drown out by Putter-Poof's lamentations.

Air Raid transformed mid-air, shading his optics against the glare of the spotlights down below as he pressed his faceplate to the small window and caught sight of the flightless occupants within the ship. He grinned devilishly, giving a jaunty wave of welcome before backflipping away into the air and reverting back to his alt mode. Being much more nimble than the larger stealth ship, he looped around and around before zipping off to rejoin his group.

"Show off," Jazz snorted.

Hangar 2's doors gaped wide in welcome, the white glare of its bare lights spilling out into the dark. Jazz came in slow, engaging anti-gravity landers to stabilize the descent, tapping on reverse thrusters to slow their forward movement to a slow crawl. His screens flashed with the number of the designated lot they would be docked at. Docking arms whirred down from the complex of machinery that loomed above the hangar, locking on with a sure grip to help scoot tiny Putter-Poof to its proper resting place.

Prowl leaned up to survey his surroundings, noting the moment the far doors hissed open and a tall mech of familiar build marched through in a determined stride.

"Ratchet's here," he announced, levering up from his seat with a stiff grunt.

"Oh joy," Jazz replied flatly, following on Prowl's heels to the exit. They disembarked without fanfare, finding the hangar predictably bare for this time of night. Two bots from engineering were on duty, one who was half-reclined on an arranged collection of crates, near enough to recharge as to be useless, and the second was the designated Hanger Master, who waved to them before his attention diverted elsewhere. Drones and other autonomous machinery constituted the rest of the moving figures in the vast room.

And then there was the blustering medic who abruptly stepped into their path.

"Ratchet," Prowl greeted coolly, lifting his chin in hopes of showing no weakness.

"Prowl," the medic drawled tightly, eyeing Prowl's damages as if he were introducing a horrible plague with them.

"Miss us?" Jazz goaded.

"No." Two fingers pinched the bridge between the medic's optics. A deep drag of air whooshed in his vents, followed by its equally deep release. "Step forward. Turn around. Let me see what I'm dealing with."

They stepped forward, putting distance between them and their ship. Behind them, Putter-Poof's exhaust belched a thick cloud of soot from improperly burned energizer. The air suddenly reeked with a bitterly acrid stench. Ratchet's olfactory sensor twitched, his optics narrowing into thin slits.

"Engerizer," he stated. "Energizer is an illegal substance."

"Only when used on living systems" Prowl reasoned.

The corner of Ratchet's optic twitched. It was such a little gesture that it could have been missed by lesser bots. Being the creatures that they were, both Prowl and Jazz caught the movement. Something had already eroded the fuse to the CMO's temper, leaving behind a volatile combination of agitation and barely controlled violence. They braced themselves for the worse.

Prowl gasped when a strong hand shot out and caught his chin in a vice. Ratchet was a bare breath taller than him, though significantly more robust in shape – powerful enough to deal with even the most rowdy of patients. He loomed darkly over the tactician with a leering optic, searching for whatever answers he was seeking. When his chin was suddenly released, Prowl nearly hit the floor were it not for Jazz's quick catch of his arm.

"You didn't use it," Ratchet concluded.

"Of course I did not!" Prowl exclaimed, rubbing his offended jaw. "It's energizer. Even if it were a legal substance, it is still the foulest-tasting creation on Cybertron. I would have to be desperate to ingest it!"

Ratchet grunted.

"Ya gonna check meh?" Jazz offered warily, watching Ratchet's hands like they were rabid animals.

"No. I don't care what you do," Ratchet replied, pacing away and back again. His agitation was a potent thing in the air. He scanned Prowl and Jazz, and then scanned them again. Optics as sharp as laser scalpels trawled over their frames, taking inventory of every reason Ratchet had to be in a foul mood with them. To his credit, he appeared to be struggling with a semblance of calm – failed endeavour, but appreciated nonetheless. Prowl could not help but be curious about what might have put the medic on such a sharp edge.

Jazz coughed quietly, barely any noise at all, but it was enough to snap the wire of tension riding Ratchet. He rounded on them with the force of a hurricane. Air garbled in his vents, armour roiling on their moorings like a sea tossed by a storm, and all of Ratchet's temper was projected onto his two innocent victims.

"I leave you two to go off on some Primus-foresaken pity mission for a Neutral and _this_ is what happens to you?" Noise and bluster rang off the walls. The one mech half dozing on his pile of crates gave a startled yelp, toppling to the side in his fright. Ratchet paid him no mind, instead focusing his ire on the pair of bots who he encompassed with a sweeping and imperious gesture. "_This_ is what I get for believing that the both of you are high-functioning, highly capable, highly trained Autobot warriors? You are in ruins! You are a mess! I don't need this kind of slag right now!"

Jazz raised a hand to point to himself. "Not an Autobot."

"Do I look like I care?!" Ratchet hissed acidly. There was enough vehemence in his tone to make Jazz drop his hand. "Look at you! Both of you! Slinking back here like being gone for six fortnights is nothing at all! Banged up, bashed in, and looking sorrier than a couple of washed up Neutrals caught in a smelting pot! I got those recommendations sent by the Paxian medic. I know what has to be done. Do you have any idea how much work it is going to be to restore the two of you! I have enough on my plate to deal with without having this slag added to it!"

Jazz turned his olfactory sensor up. "Then don't worry about us. It's not like we desperately need ya. Ah've survived this long without ya, and there are enough medics around ta screw a new arm back on Prowl." He held up the hand missing its finger. "Mah finger can wait."

"Your finger can rust in the pit," Ratchet snapped.

The saboteur shrugged dismissively. "Ah can't say this is the best 'Welcome Home' Ah've ever had, but it ain't the worst either."

Ratchet's mouthplates dropped open to spit a retort, only to draw up short an instant later. His optics narrowed dangerously, gears turning in his head. There was something like regret in his optics just before it was swept away into an expression more befitting a bitter flavour. It was then that Ratchet mumbled _"Welcome home Jazz, Prowl,"_ with all the warmth and sincerity of a looming glacier.

"Whatever," Jazz breathed, smirking tiredly. After the stress and discomfort of facing the unknown, it was unusually pleasant to be back somewhere familiar, surrounded by bots who reacted exactly as Jazz knew they would. It was safe. A place he could let his guard down at last, relax, and begin to plot his next move against Shockwave.

A calming drag of air was taken into Ratchet's vents. His shoulders dropped, and he dismissed the saboteur with a shake of his head. "I forgot what a glitch you are, Jazz. I am glad that the two of you are back and that you are alive. _But_, if you think I am going to allow some other medic to head the surgery to replace Prowl's endoskeleton and install a new interfacial panel, you are completely out of your crazy mind."

"Fine, Ah'm out of mah mind. What else is new?" Jazz snorted.

Prowl gave the other bot a nudge with his elbow, hoping to curb his partner's mischief. It worked, with Jazz settling back on his heels and heaving an exhausted sigh. As much as Prowl appreciated the saboteur's attempts to distract Ratchet, thereby keeping the medic's scrutiny away from Prowl, it was late at night and Ratchet's temper was something that shouldn't be tested.

Ratchet did not miss the movement of Prowl's elbow. A heavy optic ridge arched in response to it.

"You're being quiet, commander," he noted. "Have anything to say?"

"Perhaps." Prowl looked the CMO up and down, noting the changes since the last time they had seen each other. There was a new gouge in the medic's light yellow armour, running diagonally from the highest point of his shoulder into the thicker armour of his chassis. A sizable dent curved inward on his lower left side. A minor warp in the metal of his faceplate enhanced the storminess of his scowl.

"Have you been attacked, Ratchet?" he queried, only to find that that was the wrong question to ask.

"_That_ is none of your business," Ratchet snapped, bristling with renewed agitation. "I don't have all night to stand around like a gormless drone. Come on! Let the Hangar Master deal with that stupid ship of yours. Let's get you to the med bay!"

Prowl fell into step behind Ratchet, with Jazz keeping pace at his side.

"The med bay? Right now? Would you rather wait until morning?" Prowl offered.

"I'm awake now." Ratchet growled. "I want to know exactly what I am dealing with now so I'm not surprised in the morning. It'll bother me if I send you away without knowing."

"What about meh? Can Ah go?" Jazz wondered.

There was no answer right away, except for the discordant tapping of their feet echoing through the empty hall. The lights above were dimmed for the graveyard shift to save energy. Ratchet, despite being painted a light yellow, was the darkest presence in the hall.

"No," said the medic.

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

Prowl watched Jazz from the corner of his optic, wondering what his partner might do. In the past, Jazz might have gone his own way because it suited him. Certainly, the reason 'Because I said so' would have been enough to spur him to do the exact opposite. This time, the saboteur offered a flash of a smirk and a careless shrug, continuing to walk by Prowl's side without so much as a hitch in his gait. Whatever Jazz might have done in the past, it did not hold sway on his decision to stay now. Their hands bumps against one another, and Prowl reached out to give his partner a grateful squeeze.

The door to med bay gave its customary pneumatic hiss as Ratchet ushered the pair in.

"This'll be quick," he said. "I want to get back to recharge."

"Of course," Prowl breathed, having no desire to stay longer than he had to. Recharge sounded like a pretty good option right then.

Lights flickered on overhead, followed by a surprised squeal from the open door of the office tucked into the side of the main bay. Someone toppled to the floor in surprise, followed by the tap of a second set of feet rushing to help the first. Embarrassed twittering filtered through the doorway, not quite quiet enough to cover up the fact two bots had been caught doing something they shouldn't have been doing.

"Moonracer," Ratchet called out, scanned the area, and then followed her designation up with a second one. "Bluestreak."

Prowl did not have time to hide his surprise before two bots stumbled out with their guilty smiles on full parade. Jazz actually laughed out loud, causing those not accustomed to the sound to jump in surprise. Moonracer looked the same as she had the orn she had come for help, albeit with a lot less dirt to obscure her pretty looks. Bluestreak, on the other hand, had changed remarkably – he stood upright and well balanced, his optics bright and full of sharp awareness. There was hardly any evidence that he had ever been a fractured little waif with as much computing power as a defunct drone.

Moonracer's hands fluttered around her chest, quickly snapping her interface panel closed. Her optics sized the CMO up before jumping to Prowl and then Jazz. She visibly startled to see the saboteur, determinedly snapping her gaze back to the medic. "Ratchet... I wasn't expecting you to be in until morning."

"I can see that," Ratchet replied dryly. "It is safe to say, I wasn't expecting you to have company."

"Yeah, about that..."

"This is not a pleasure house, Moonracer, and I hope to Primus that you do not think you are a pleasure bot while working for me in my med bay."

Moonracer had sense enough to flinch, looking appropriately guilty.

"I was just checking on her," Bluestreak sputtered, wringing his hands nervously. "It's a long night, you know, as far as nights go. It's the Dark Season. Long nights and short orns, generally speaking. Moonracer was working...by herself... during the long night. One of the patients might have woken up, and she could have used help restraining them. I thought some company would be okay. There's nothing else I was doing, really... I'm still on moderated duties, anyways. Better safe than sorry, right? So, um, I guess... I was... checking on her."

Though he appeared well recovered, there was still evidence of Bluestreak's extensive damages in his struggle to form proper sentences. He could speak, but it was noticeably stilted, stopping and starting with an awkward cadence.

"Right. So, out of the kindness of your spark, you - as a bot still on moderated duty - thought you would be enough to restrain one of my patients in the event that they had a meltdown?" Ratchet drawled, one optic ridge arching high on his brow.

"...um, yes?"

A twitch in Prowl's periphery had him glancing to the side, noting the subtle curve at the corner of Jazz's mouthplates. It was change enough to spur the tactician to rock back on his heels, shifting closer to his partner. Jazz shifted to meet him, broadening his subtle smile to reflect whatever sense of relief he was feeling. Prowl bent his head so that Jazz could murmur to him without being overheard.

"He looks good," said the saboteur with an affected warmth. "Ah think Ah've missed his rambling."

"We've been gone a while. He's had time to recover," Prowl murmured.

Their exchange went unnoticed while Ratchet continued to loom like a dark cloud, pinning his victims to the spot with a single piercing stare.

"You do remember who I have back there in the ICU, don't you?" One hand came up to consciously rub the dent in his faceplate. "Did you even bother to think of what might have happened if either one of them came online while you were busy distracting each other in my office?"

Bluestreak flinched, his fidgeting becoming more pronounced. "They wouldn't hurt me... They're my friends – and they're both sedated. I thought it was okay. Well... not _okay_ okay, but I thought it was safe."

Moonracer stuck her olfactory sensor in the air. "I could handle them just fine. Nothing that a couple of plasma shots wouldn't take care of."

"It would take a pit of a lot more than you sorry creatures to keep the likes of the Twins down for long. If it takes more than what I have, the two of you would be scrap in no time," Ratchet sneered, but there was more fear in his tone than actual anger. His optics shot nervously to the crystal wall that overlooked the ICU, making sure two of his most dangerous patients were exactly where he left them. Then he cast a scolding look upon Bluestreak and Moonracer, never minding that Prowl and Jazz were there to witness their reprimand.

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Prowl eyed the exit. "Ratchet, if it is alright with you, we can come back in the morning-"

"No. I'm awake now. You stay." He drew himself up tall, crossing his big arms over his barrelled chest. "Maybe a little bit of public humiliation will let the lesson here sink into their heads."

Thus denied escape, Prowl sighed and deflated.

Ratchet rounded back on his victims. "I expected more out of the two of you. _Especially_ you, Bluestreak. You know exactly how dangerous the Twins are when they are in one of their moods."

"I know... I know..."

"With everything that has been going on, did you think I needed to worry about the two of you sneaking around behind my back like this?"

"We didn't think you'd find out," Moonracer murmured to the tops of her feet.

"Well, I did find out and I am not at all impressed with either one of you," Ratchet chided. "I will have to think more carefully about trusting you to look after my patients in the future, Moonracer. Lives are at stake and I won't have you endangering a single one of them, not even your own. And you, Blustreak..." He shook his head. "I'll put a tracker collar on you again so I know exactly where you are all times of the orn and night. No more wandering off while on duty. No more sneaking in here for secret trysts. Primus only knows how many times you've done this!"

"This is the first time! I swear it is!" Moonracer exclaimed. "Neither of us meant any harm."

"It's the middle of the night. I'm tired and don't want to deal with this anymore. Get out, you two," Ratchet sighed tiredly, once again pinching the bridge between his optics. "Just get out. You'll hear from me in the morning."

Prowl needed to step to the left to avoid being bowled over by the pair of thoroughly chastised bots. There was barely enough time to exchange a nod with Bluestreak before the two of them were shooed away under Ratchet's dark glare. Moonracer drew up short in the hallway, ducking her head back into the med bay despite the warning growl from the CMO. She drew herself up, obviously hoping to look more confident than what Ratchat's verbal lashing had left her, meeting Jazz's aloof stare with a stupid kind of hopeful bravery.

"Jazz, I-"

"Ah'll find ya in the morning and tell ya what Ah found," said the saboteur, summarily dismissing her.

She gave a meek nod and skittered away silently.

In their wake, Ratchet huffed a disgusted snort. "Prowl, find a berth and sit on the damn thing. I'm going to see what sort of mischief they got up to in my office."

Prowl did as he was told, taking up the berth on the far side of the med bay where he could peer into the ICU through the clear crystal windows lining the wall. His curiosity had been piqued with the mentioning of the Twins. While Ratchet shuffled through the small alcove that served as his place of business, filling the air with the soft sound of his muffled curses, Prowl took his time to peruse the ICU from the safety of the main bay. It was dark in the room beyond, and many of the berths were unfortunately filled. Even the CR chambers were taken up with floating frames, nothing but indistinct dark shapes floating in the dully glowing energon. A resonance scan revealed that the Twins were, in fact, lurking in the room beyond. There was no hint of which broken outline belonged to either one of them.

Jazz slid up to Prowl's side, flicking him gently in the doorwing. The look on his faceplate was enquiring, politely curious without demanding to find out what Prowl was thinking. He appreciated the gesture, flexing his metal wing with a small grimace. The appendage was stiff, effected by rust growing into the hinges.

"How're ya feeling?" the saboteur wondered.

"Discombobulated," Prowl admitted. "It seems a lot has happened in our absence. Bluestreak and Moonracer was quite a twist."

A small grin lit Jazz's faceplate. "The world don't stop spinning just 'cause we're not in it. Ah can see Blue having a bit of fun with the Neutral. She seems the decent sort." He cast a quick glance back at Ratchet's office, raising his optic ridges at the medic's continued shuffling and bumping around. "While he's thundering around in there, Ah'm gonna check out the ICU."

"The Twins?"

"Yeah, now Ah'm curious ta see how they're doing – or, ya know, find out how many pieces they're lying in. Whichever comes first."

Prowl rolled his optics, nudging his partner toward the door. "Go on, but be careful. You have dealt with enough life-threatening situations, you do not need to go poking any more recharging beasts."

"Like the Twins could ever best meh," Jazz laughed, waltzing his way into the ICU with something of a swagger. He kept the lights off, slowly disappearing into the dark until he was nothing but a cocky shadow slinking between the rows of berths.

In short order, Ratchet returned from his rummaging with a soured look on his faceplate. In his arms were a couple of tools which Prowl assumed were meant for his appraisal, an assumption strengthened by the fact that they were set by his hip and arranged in particular order. Strong hands took hold of Prowl's frame, steady and confident in their careful manipulation. In the time that Prowl had been away, Ratchet had not lost his extraordinary talent as a medic.

"Sorry about that," the yellow mech grumbled, his indignant grunt vibrating down his arms, into his hands, where Prowl could feel it expressed against his armour. "I swear I don't conduct a pleasure house in here. I'd call it a madhouse, if anything."

"This would not be an Autobot base without it first being a madhouse," Prowl replied, with a very long list in his head for every reason that an Autobot base was a madhouse. In a mildly self-deprecating tone, he said, "Look at the company I keep."

Ratchet coughed a rough laugh.

"If you need me to discipline them, I can have something arranged," Prowl offered.

"No, don't do that. I think the embarrassment of this encounter was enough." Evidence, of course, that underneath Ratchet's gruff exterior, he did have a kind spark. The tips of his expert fingers broke apart, unfolding into thinner and thinner digits until they were long and spindly appendages perfect for slipping around Prowl's armour and taking stock of the delicate innards underneath. Every time he encountered rust, the sound of it scraping against the tips of his probing fingers was jarring and obscene. It did not hurt, but it was not a pleasant experience either.

"I assume Jazz snuck into the ICU?"

"He's over there," Prowl replied with a brief tilt of his head, not even needing to check on his partner's position. It seemed his sixth sense when it came to knowing where Jazz was had evolved to knowing where he was in another room. Jazz's silhouette slipped in front of the soft haze of the lit CR chambers. Dull blue light glinted off the shine of his horns.

Ratchet did not bother to glance over.

"The damage to your shoulder is impressive."

"You should have seen the arm that was attached."

"I read about it." He rubbed his cheek against his shoulder, then gave his head a shake, trying to stay online with what little recharge he had. Ratchet had fantastic energy reserves to keep online for much longer than a general Autobot, meant to enable him to keep working in crisis situations when everyone else had fallen away, but even he had his limits. "Are you experiencing any discomfort? Feedback from corroded wiring? Would you say stiffness from rust has increased since you saw that Paxian medic?"

"The discomfort is tolerable compared to before, although I suspect the rust has spread." He quieted as a tool was selected and went to work on the temporary patch adhered to the caved section of his shoulder. Ratchet worked mindfully, lifting the thin plate section by section without disturbing the metal around it. Scanning probes roamed freely over the wound, documenting what his optics could not see right away.

"You're right about the rust," Ratchet intoned, setting aside the patch. "It's spread, but I am also seeing a bit of healthy new growth." With his spindly fingers, he touched a raw spot where healthy metal was attempting to regenerate. His touch sent a jolt up Prowl's neural circuits, causing him to jump.

"That is uncomfortably sensitive," he admitted with a grimace.

Ratchet cast him a wry look. "Consider it a good thing. It means the neural circuits are coming in as they're supposed to. If it was just metal coming in without the circuits, it would mean we had a serious problem."

"Meaning?"

"Your repair programming was damaged and the energy from your spark that makes your metal alive would keep growing the metal without end. You would end up with a tumorous growth that I would need to cut out, then install new repair programming, and lay down a scaffolding for the wound to heal properly. More work for me."

"I see," Prowl breathed slowly, studying the floor. "I suppose I am relieved that it hurt when you poked me."

"You better be," Ratchet grunted, continuing his careful examination. Innards were touched, weighed, scanned, poked, probed - an impressively thorough check-up for someone who wanted it to be done quickly so he could go back to recharge. Not that Prowl had expected less of the CMO. Ratchet was a perfectionist when it came to his function, a trait that Prowl wholly approved of.

"How are your wires doing? Anything I need to worry about?" Ratchet wondered amidst his perusal.

Prowl inclined his head, though the gesture went unseen as the medic's attention was elsewhere. "I was rewired at the outpost, so no feedback that I can tell, but I would like to mention that I still need you to do a bit of work in my head. I blew out a few circuits while on the mission."

"Anything important?"

"I cannot see the colour red."

"So nothing important, then. I don't have to worry about fixing it right this moment." A long groan followed Ratchet up as he stretched to his full height, propping his hip to the berth and guiding Prowl to slowly turn to give access to his back. Skilled hands surveyed the flexibility of his doorwings and hinged armour. "Wheeljack has your arm ready for you, and I have a new interfacial hub, but it may be a little while before you can get into surgery. Possibly a couple of orns. I have too many bots in critical condition."

"I understand. I can function without an arm for as long as needed. Two arms are not necessary for sitting at a desk."

"Your function has always been a bit more cerebral than the rest, which is an advantage right this moment," Ratchet shrugged. "While you're waiting to get into surgery, I'll give you a couple things to start dealing with the rust on your own. Some diluted acetic acid and sodium bicarbonate applied to the affected areas should do the trick. I know you have trouble reaching your back, so find someone to help apply the solution."

"Jazz will do it."

"Of course he will."

They startled when the window next to them rattled with an insistent knock. Jazz stood on the other side, as if summoned by the mentioning of his designation. He gave them a once over through the window, canting his head at their startled expressions, and then moved like quicksilver to the door and slipped into the main bay.

"We were just discussing you," Ratchet coughed.

"Yeah? About what?"

Prowl sat up straighter. "I will require help treating my rust. It is non-invasive, but it requires a second bot to help reach the places I can't."

"Oh." Jazz pursed his mouthplates, and then shrugged. "You're high-maintenance, ya know that?"

"It is one of my many faults," Prowl lamented dismissively.

Jazz shrugged again, hopping up on the berth parallel to the one Prowl sat on. He nudged Ratchet in the back with his foot. "The twins sure took a beating. What happened ta them?"

Prowl felt the jerk in tension as Ratchet bristled at the question.

"They're little fraggers, that's what happened to them," the medic spat.

"Tell meh something Ah don't know," Jazz snorted with a roll of his optics.

Ratchet obliged with a sneer. "Not even three orns ago, they were sent out as part of an aid convoy. A skirmish broke out when they encountered a Decepticon envoy, and the Twins did what they are wont to do whenever the opportunity presents itself."

"They killed everything and anything they could get their hands on," Jazz concluded without pause. There was no question to it, only a resigned confidence.

"They didn't manage to kill everything," Ratchet replied tightly. "The orn they manage to win their insane campaign to kill themselves, it will be the orn I can finally rest peacefully at night."

"You don't mean that," Prowl chastised quietly, shocked to hear such an admission. It went against the core programming of every medic. Life was more sacred to them than to anyone else.

Ratchet cut him a raw look full of bitterness and exhaustion. "You don't know them like I do. You don't know what they've done. I've had to piece them back together every single time their miserable afts are dragged in here, barely alive, hanging together by wires and bolts." He shuttered his optics and leaned his forehead against the cool crystal. "I know they don't want to live. But I have to do everything in my power to keep them alive because that is what I am programmed to do. Even when they fight me every step of the way."

"They're stupid and selfish," Jazz sneered. "They don't know how good they got it around here."

Prowl never imagined he would be inspired to feel pity for the Twins, but in this one case there was a twinge of something in his sparkcase. There was also the dawning realization of exactly where Ratchet's injuries had come from.

"Which one hurt you, Ratchet?"

"Not that it matters at all, but Sunstreaker. He broke loose from the CR chamber and came after me before I could summon security." Ratchet kept his stormy gaze from meeting anyone else's optics. "It's not the first time and it won't be the last. I've been so busy, I can't even pop out my own dents."

Jazz shifted in his seat, tapping his fingers in an odd pattern. Prowl realized a moment later that it was the hand missing a finger, explaining the odd pattern. "Ya want meh ta fix him? Ah can make it so he settles down real fast."

"Jazz!" Prowl hissed.

"Don't touch him," Ratchet sighed. "Don't bother. Nothing you do will ever be able to get rid of the hatred in his spark. I can deal with whatever he dishes out."

"Whatever," Jazz mumbled, staring off into the dark of the ICU - probably plotting something for a later date.

Prowl shook his head, inspired to choose a different topic lest he spark the medic's temper again. "Bluestreak appears to have improved immensely. He seems almost back to normal."

While the topic change was painfully obvious, it came as such a relief that no one gave the tactician fault.

"You've been gone a long time," Ratchet reasoned gruffly, smoothing his palms over Prowl's back in strong, sure strokes. "Bluestreak has been improving in leaps and bounds with every file that gets sorted out in his head. Moonracer and Blue have developed quite the attachment in your absence. They've bonded over their mutual experiences in Shockwave's captivity. It's been good for Bluestreak to have someone to talk to, someone he can relate to."

"Sounds like Moonracer was able to make herself useful during her stay here," Jazz observed.

"Useful in some ways, I suppose," Ratchet sighed. "Her attentiveness has helped Bluestreak recover, but she's still distrustful of the Autobots as a whole. I would hate to see what will happen when she remembers that Bluestreak is as much an Autobot as the rest of us."

"Ah don't see why," Jazz drawled. "They're both young and having fun. Blue's had a hard enough time as it is, ya might as well let him have a little fun in his life. Weirder things have happened between Neutrals and Autobots."

Ratchet's mouthplates curved into something that was not quite a smile, but not quite a frown either. "She is not you, Jazz. As much as they like each other now, it will only hurt more when she leaves. And she will leave, there is no question about that."

"Maybe she'll choose ta stay," Jazz offered. "Ah chose ta stay. Ah like it here. It ain't the worst place on the planet ta be."

"She'd have to become an Autobot to stay," Ratchet replied with a pointed glance in the saboteur's direction.

To this, Jazz pressed his mouthplates together into a thin line.

"Would she be accepted if she petitioned for our cause?" Prowl enquired, he too letting his gaze stray to Jazz.

Ratchet shrugged. "I wouldn't say no to her recruitment. Elita One could use her, as could I. She could easily be accepted if she was willing to work and prove her worth." His gaze slid to Jazz none too subtly. "I know of another Neutral who would be accepted in a sparkbeat."

"Ah just got home, Ratchet. Ah'm tired," Jazz lamented, resting back on his braced arms. "Ah don't want ta get into that stuff right now."

Prowl leaned in with mocking conspiratorial intentions. "Note that he did not deny his eligibility to be an Autobot. I am slowly wearing him down."

"Like rust," Jazz snorted.

"Again, you do not deny it," Prowl claimed triumphantly.

"Ah'm done here," Jazz announced, hopping down from his berth. "Six fortnights is enough of your company, Prowler. Ah need a break. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," Prowl murmured to the saboteur's retreating back, unfazed by the sudden departure.

"That chased him off rather quickly," Ratchet commented airily, beginning to put his tools away now that he was done checking what he wanted to check.

Prowl swung his legs down over the side of the berth, swinging them absently. "He is sensitive to the idea. It is best not to push him on things like that. He has to come to his own conclusions."

"Do you think he will ever take the oath and become an Autobot?" Ratchet wondered idly. Around him, the med bay was not quiet, but instead filled with a soft symphony of beeping and distant chirping, the deep rattle of the vents above, and the quiet groan of recharging mechs in the ICU.

Prowl shuttered his optics, taking a deep drag of sterile air. "Yes."

"You sound confident."

One of Prowl's rare half-smiles flashed under the med bay lights. "I am more confident now than I have ever been. He is Autobot material, he just doesn't know it yet."

"A lot of other bots don't know it yet, either." Ratchet disappeared briefly into his office, dropped off his tools, and came back out with a small cube of energon. "Here. It's medical grade. It's not going to taste too great, but at least you won't have to swing by the dispensation room."

"Thanks. I've drank enough machine grade energon to last a lifetime. Medical grade will be like high-grade." Prowl took a long draught to revel in the smooth flavour and soft tingle of diluted energy. Lowering the cube, he peered down into the translucent liquid as it swilled around gently. "I realize that when I invited Jazz to come here two vorns ago, everyone thought I was out of my mind. _I_ thought I was out of my mind. It was the most foolish, impulsive, dangerous thing I have ever done."

"Things change," Ratchet murmured.

"Jazz has changed," Prowl corrected, smiling down into his cube of energon. "He's done things that, when we started this endeavour, I never thought possible. He's shown mercy, compassion, empathy – things that not even I have a perfect grasp of. I let him in my head. I trusted him to help me when I needed him the most, and do you know what he did?"

It was rhetorical, but Ratchet asked the expected question. "What did he do?"

"He helped me, and expected nothing in return. He was in my mind; he saw my memories, felt what I can feel, but I am not afraid that he is going to use it against me."

Ratchet rocked back on his heels, assessing Prowl in a new light. "Jazz isn't the only one who has changed since he came here."

"I have hardly changed at all," Prowl countered.

"You have changed more than you think," Ratchet intoned, flicking him dead centre of his chevron. "When you were first stationed in Iacon, you would never let me anywhere near your processor. It was vorns before I figured out what you were doing with your emotional centre, and I had to drag that out of your head through deep scanning while you were laying damaged on one of my berths. You were a private bot who no one could touch, like an island existing all alone. Now look at you."

"I have a single friend. If that is all of my accomplishments, then that is a sorry state indeed."

"The mere fact that you call Jazz a friend is extraordinary. You've admitted that you let him into your head, let him see parts of yourself that you would never even show your own medic. This time, you didn't even need me to tell you to turn your emotional centre back on. You did it by yourself."

"With help," Prowl reasoned, grimacing. "I had hoped you wouldn't notice."

"No one else is going to notice. They don't like you enough to care," Ratchet huffed. "I noticed because I have been treating you for the same nonsense for as long as I have known it's been going on, but even in this you have changed."

"I do not see how," Prowl admitted. "Nothing has changed. I still fail to control my condition. I still suffer the affects of the backlash."

A sturdy hand clapped down on Prowl's good shoulder. "You don't mess with your centre as much as you used to. You turn it on without me telling you to. You're more engaged with bots here. You are more comfortable with yourself. There is no doubt in my mind that we have Jazz to thank for this."

"Perhaps."

"If he invested as much into the Autobots as he does into you, we'd be winning this war."

"He still has some way to go before he takes any oath."

Ratchet hitched a shoulder. "The orn that I hear he is petitioning Optimus Prime to become an Autobot, he has my support. Once upon a time, he was the worst there ever was, but now... not so much. He's almost decent."

Prowl laughed quietly, heaving to his feet. "Almost decent. I think that is as close to a compliment as he will ever get out of you."

"Don't tell him I said that," Ratchet chuckled lowly. "Go on, it's late. Get some recharge. If you are planning on getting back to work tomorrow, you'll need as much rest as you can get. The Welcome Home party can wait."

Prowl bid his quick goodnights to the medic before making his escape into the hall, taking familiar hallways and lifts to the barracks. His door was the same as always, if not a little neglected from lack of use. It slid open in welcome upon his approach, admitting him into the small space that he had called home for a number of vorns. Nothing had been touched in his absence. Prowl took his time looking around.

After so long of living out of Putter-Poof's cramped quarters, his own room seemed bizarrely vast and empty. There was no noise, except for the muffled sound of his neighbours' snuffling vents. The air was cold and quiet, no swish of chaotic company coming and going. His berth, the same berth he had recharged in for vorns, looked strange to his optics.

To no one in particular, Prowl looked up at the plain metal ceiling and announced, "I am home."

There was no answer, except for a sense of echoing loneliness.

"Never mind, then."

For the first time, Prowl noticed how bare his walls were. How empty his desk was. How devoid of personal artefacts his entire room was. It was as if no one had ever lived here at all. And suddenly it bothered him that it looked like no one lived in his room. What once had been orderly and sensible now felt cold and bleak. There was emptiness in the room that Prowl no longer wanted reflected in himself.

Two steps to the sharply angled rectangular desk in the corner, Prowl jerked open a drawer and withdrew a single data pad. It was a sizeable one, with a decently sized screen. He downloaded a small file into it, activated the holographic screen, and then propped the small pad on his desk at the base of the austere light presiding over his spartan workspace. He took the time to angle the screen so he could see it from his berth.

A single step back had him bumping into his berth, prompting him to sit. The picture he had downloaded onto the data pad stared back at him, smiling faceplates offering a snapshot into the past. A picture that had been taken by a media bot hosting a piece on the fine work done by the bots in the tactical division of Simfur Capitol City Security Response. Prowl looked predictably awkward and uncomfortable in the picture, not yet the master of smiling on cue. Everyone else looked handsome and proud. Smokescreen stood by his left, shined to perfection, and Hunter was in the back with his chest out and his chin up. Kingpin was on the outskirts of the group, aloof as always.

Evasia barely stood out in the crowd, short enough to stand in the front, and nearly overwhelmed by the much larger officers around her. Her smile was sincere, though. She looked like the happiest one to be there.

The new personal touch to his room was small, but it meant something.

Maybe it did nothing to combat the loneliness in the room, but it certainly made a dent in the emptiness. Now his quarters said _someone lived here_ – albeit, it said so in a quiet, demure voice as if not quite sure if it wanted to be overheard or not. He could have chosen a more personal picture, but this one suited him just fine. This was a first step. He wasn't overly concerned with how superficial and silly the gesture was. He watched the picture from the side of his berth and marvelled over the fact that Ratchet had been right in some small way; he _had_ changed.

There was hope for him yet.

At his door, someone buzzed the alert before letting himself in. Prowl sat up to greet his company, and then shrugged and laid back down when it was only Jazz.

"The mission is over, Jazz - we don't have to keep doing this. You have your own room now," he pointed out.

"No Ah don't," Jazz replied hoarsely, leaning back against the wall next to the door. There were storm clouds in his dimmed optics.

This time, Prowl did sit up and swing his legs down. "What do you mean? Of course you have a room."

A humourless laugh ricocheted off the bare walls. "Yeah, Ah thought so too, until Ah walked into the room Ah've been living in for the last two vorns and it was empty."

"There's got to be some mistake. Did you walk into the wrong room?"

Jazz shot him an incredulous look.

"Okay, no, you did not walk into the wrong room."

"It's been empty for a while," the saboteur said. "Probably since the moment Ah left this place. Ah bet they didn't even wait for mah berth ta get cold before they cleared everything out. Guess Ah wasn't as welcomed back as Ah thought Ah was."

"That's not true."

"Tell that ta mah empty room." He balled a fist and pounded it hollowly against the wall at his back. "Ya mind if Ah stay here tonight? Ah got nowhere else right now."

"Of course, my quarters have always been open to you – even when the door has been locked."

The poor joke was enough to summon a half-sparked smile. The saboteur came to the berth and allowed himself to be guided up by Prowl's one good hand. The tension in Jazz's grip matched the tension in his faceplate, a hollow neutral mask that looked too forced to be uncaring. Instead, Jazz just looked hurt.

"We'll figure this out in the morning," Prowl assured, laying back on the familiar contours of his berth.

"If Ah'm even still here by then." Jazz rolled over and activated his recharge subroutines.

Prowl remained online for a while longer, staring at the ceiling, worried for the bot he was sharing a berth with, and equally concerned for how less empty his room felt now.


	43. Chapter 43

Hello again, all you beautiful people! For all my worries and critiques of the last chapter, you have since renewed my faith. I am deeply grateful for everyone who found the time to review and leave a few kind words. It really did mean the world to me, and helped to spur on my inspiration for the next chapter. Words cannot describe how excited I am for where this story is going. With each chapter, Prowl and Jazz are slowly changing, learning more about each other and themselves, and inevitably they are growing closer. We all know where this story is going, but it's the _journey_ that counts, am I right? You know I'm right. =P

You know what else has me excited? That _Where You and I Collide_ is reaching it's 1,800th review. When I started this story a little over three years ago, I never imagined it would get this far. Now that it is this far... wow. Just _wow_. Thank you so much to all of you for helping to make this story the phenomenon that it is! Thank you to **Fianna9, brohne, Alathea2, Faecat, Camfield, VyxenSkye, kkcliffy, Chistarpax, DemonSurfer, JUNTWEI, White Aster, Gamemice, Bluebird Soaring, CNightJoy, Nikkie2010, Randomstrike, Qwertzu, Optimus Bob, renegadewriter8, Exactlywhat, Daklog73, kathy3meme, Guest, Luinrina, femme4jack, IBrokethe4thWall, Kidara, Peacewish, Jenn, Sideslip, ennui deMorte, Wanderling**, and **Krysala**!

**Where You and I Collide  
Chapter 43**

"There's someone at the door."

Prowl grunted, cracking an optic open to peer at the dark ceiling. Next to him, Jazz laid on his back with his optics shuttered. The saboteur was clearly online, since he was the one who had spoken. True to his observation, there came a rhythmic thumping at the entrance to Prowl's quarters, followed by the annoying whine of the buzzer. A moment of expectant silence. And then the thumping started up again.

"There's someone at the door," Jazz said again, opening his optics briefly, frowning, and determinedly closing them again. He did not bother to move otherwise.

"You're not going to get it?" Prowl wondered, mildly bewildered but mostly groggy as he waited for all his systems to boot up properly.

A sigh breezed out his vents. "No."

"I see." Prowl rolled over to lay on his front, propped up by his one arm, able to study his companion's deceptively calm faceplate. Answering the door for the sake of shock and awe was exactly the sort of thing Jazz would have enjoyed. Not to mention, it just seemed polite for him to be the one to get up, seeing as he was laying on the outside edge of the berth closest to the door.

"Ah'm not getting up," Jazz said without even cracking his optics open.

"Then sit up so I can get the door. I am not rolling over you with only one arm."

Jazz sat up and shuffled to the side, leaning his back against the wall while Prowl manoeuvred in the open space, sliding from the low berth to the floor. He took a moment to marvel at the tenacity of his caller, who continued to knock and ring the buzzer without pause. It was early enough in the morning for it to be rude to start yelling without waking the rest of the hall, but judging from the huffing snorts and soft cursing through the door, it would only be a short time before the yelling began.

"I am coming," Prowl assured, first disengaging the automatic lock on his door before ushering it open for his guest.

"Took you long enough," Smokescreen groused, looking harried as he glanced up and down the still-empty hall.

Prowl raised his optic ridges. "How did you even know I was back?"

"The usual channels. I was in the dispensation room getting some energon just as Blaster was coming off his shift. Now everyone in that room knows you're back. I ran here."

"Oh."

In the awkward silence that followed, Smokescreen drew himself up, as if meaning to say the dozen things he had rehearsed while awaiting Prowl's return. He had practised each one with his reflection, playing every possible scenario over and over in his head. None of those carefully chosen speeches, none of the yelling or accusations, came out like they were supposed to. Instead, his sharp optics roamed the myriad of half-healed wounds and evidence of infection that riddled his brother. Slowly, he deflated until he was hunched in the doorway, bringing attention to his current level of personal neglect. He needed a wash badly, and a polishing, and probably a new application of gloss. Tension lined his frame, furrowed his faceplate. He was practically trembling with exhaustion.

Taking pity on the poor bot, Prowl stepped aside and gestured into the room. "Come in?"

"Thanks." Smokescreen made a move to come over the threshold, stopping short under Jazz's narrowed stare. A dagger flashed between the saboteur's clever fingers, weaving absently through the air effortlessly as he sized up their new company. Never mind that it was Smokescreen, Jazz was in a foul enough mood to be intimidating to anyone who crossed his path. Prowl sent his partner a disapproving glare, which was about as effective as a finger wag. Jazz continued to glower, channelling his brooding thoughts into the movement of his dagger instead of something more destructive.

Seeing the saboteur where he was, Smokescreen did well to cover up any surprise he might have felt. Turning to Prowl, he wondered in a cautious tone, "Am I interrupting anything?"

"No," Jazz stated flatly.

"Jazz stayed the night with me because he had nowhere else to go," Prowl explained blandly, meaning to make it seem as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. The less extraordinary it was, the less likely there would be gossip about it later. He guided his brother to the seat at his desk instead of having him stand around in the middle of the room. "It was late when we got in, and there was really no sense in waking anyone else at that time."

"Right," Smokescreen breathed, frowning, thinking. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"You did, but that is alright," Prowl assured, taking a seat on the edge of his berth. In truth, he was still exhausted. A partial night of recharge and a single cube of medical grade energon was barely enough to make a difference in his energy reserves. He hid his exhaustion behind a cool façade.

Smokescreen scrubbed a hand over his faceplate, catching on his chevron. His doorwings moved restlessly, as did his feet and hands. Despite his obvious weariness, he had enough energy left to be anxious about this meeting.

"Sorry," Smokescreen suddenly said, delayed and lame as it was.

Though it was a single, simple word, Prowl felt a twinge in his spark from the resonance of it. He felt guilt and resentment and regret, and an unbidden affection for the other tactician. The first three were normal, typical emotions that he accepted as his due. The last was foreign, and would probably take some time to get used to.

"It is I who should apologize for the horrendous way I treated you during our last conversation," Prowl insisted. From behind him, Jazz snorted, reminding the pair that their reconciliation was far from private.

Smokescreen looked to the side, examining the floor. "It's fine. We can talk about it later." Meaning 'we can talk about when Jazz was not around to eavesdrop.' His optics drifted up to stare at the saboteur, and then said, "There is something different about you."

"Mah visor," Jazz grunted, his mouthplates curling into a disgruntled sneer. "Ah would have replaced it last night, but all mah stuff is gone." The dagger stopped its winding path between his fingers. He leaned forward, pinning the other bot to the spot with a hard look. "Do ya know anything about it, Smokescreen?"

"Well, I..."

"Too slow." He let fly the dagger, whistling past Smokescreen's cheek to imbed in the bare wall behind him.

"Jazz!" Prowl exclaimed, instantly up to score the blade and stash it away. He would have shoved the saboteur from his berth if he knew that would have done any good to reprimand him.

Smokescreen touched his cheek where he had felt the blade whisper past.

There was no malice on the saboteur's faceplate. He met Smokescreen's stunned stare with unerring coldness.

"Ah'm not welcomed here anymore, is that it?" Jazz growled, fists tightening at his sides.

"Maybe not after you throw a knife at my head!" Smokescreen replied plainly.

The words were waved away with a slash of his clawed hand. "Finally got tired of the ex-Decepticon wandering your halls, so ya cleared out mah room the moment ya got the chance? What were ya hoping? That Ah'd never find out? That Ah'd never come back?"

"Your quarters? What? Jazz, I hardly know what you're talking about!" Smokescreen exclaimed, pressing back in his chair until the back of it scraped the desk behind him.

"Ya know something! Don't lie!"

"It's a long story, Jazz."

"Then start talking. Ah got time."

Prowl quickly moved to his partner's side, wishing he had the two arms necessary to hold back the minibot. As it was, when he attempted to lay a hand to Jazz's knee, he was kicked away with a hiss. Worry and no small amount of concern tightened like a vice around his spark. Not concerned for Smokescreen, or what might happen if Jazz lashed out in a small space, but concern for the saboteur himself.

"Jazz, I know you are upset-."

"Upset? Ah'm not upset!" Jazz spat, somehow managing to sound the exact opposite of what he was claiming. "Ah just want mah damned stuff back!"

"And we will get your stuff back," Prowl soothed. "But first, we have to understand the situation. It is not like you to become so worked up. Let us get the facts first before we do something we will regret."

Jazz watched him, and in return Prowl kept his stare. In those startling white optics, Prowl could see what he had only glimpsed the night before. There truly was hurt in the saboteur's gaze. Vague notions of confusion, betrayal. It hurt Prowl to know that his own faction had struck out at the saboteur in such a fashion. It would have been preferable if they had attacked en mass – Jazz could have easily enjoyed himself with that. Underhanded tactics were simply... _underhanded_.

To have done so much for the Autobots, only to be rewarded by the theft of his possessions? To be striped of his place in Iacon after he had worked so hard to be where he was now? It was a rejection that Prowl could not fathom, especially not with Rarchet's offered confidence from last night fresh in his mind. The dirtiness of it was stunning in itself. Jazz's inability to answer for it, his impotence to do anything about it, shone raw in his exposed gaze and acted as a blade on Prowl's own confused conscience.

"I am sure there is a reasonable explanation for all this," Prowl pressed. He appealed upon his brother for assistance. "Please, Smokescreen, tell us what you know. Anything would help right now."

Smokescreen hunched in his seat, his expression cloudy. "I can't say I know much about it. You left fortnights ago – To tell you the truth, I've written over most of those memories with everything that has to do with managing the fragging Tactical Division." He scrubbed his palms over his faceplate. "Things have been busy around here and I haven't kept up on what everyone else has been doing."

Jazz took a single step forward, opening his palms in an almost pleading gesture. Much better than throwing daggers around. "Can ya tell meh anything? Anything at all? A reason for mah room ta be emptied? Something Ah did before Ah left?"

His yellow chevron glinted dully under the lights as he warily glanced back and forth between Jazz and Prowl, weighing his options like any good tactician would. Even if he had nothing to do with the mysterious disappearance of Jazz's room, Smokescreen nonetheless felt a twinge of guilt for it. This was not the Jazz he knew, and that mere fact had Smokescreen's battle computer ramping up on the defensive.

Prowl could see the flash and spin of diodes in his brother's optics, the only evidence that he was contemplating the matter deeply. Prowl wished he could offer a reassuring nod, a word or two to say that this was all a misunderstanding, but he could not manage either of those things. He did not trust whatever unpredictable temper had a grip on Jazz.

Eventually, Smokescreen heaved a disgusted sigh. "I think I remember something about Mirage."

"_Ah knew it!__" _

"I'm not saying any of it is true, but I heard he was caught trying to break into your quarters. That's really the only thing I can think of... You've been with us for so long, I didn't think anyone had a problem with you anymore," Smokescreen elaborated carefully, measuring each word as he spoke. "I know you have bad air between the two of you, but I can't see Master Spy Mirage sinking to that level. It is likely just a rumour-"

"Stop talking," Jazz suddenly commanded.

"What?"

"I said _stop talking_." All that contained rage suddenly turned cold. The armour under Prowl's hand drained of all warmth. Jazz shrugged away from him to make his way to the door. Immediately, Prowl scramble after him, ineffectually trying to pull him back. There was only one reason why Jazz would be heading for the hall.

"Think about this, Jazz!"

"Oh, Ah'm thinking about it alright." By the glint in his diamond hard optics, Jazz was thinking of a thousand different ways to hurt the Master Spy.

Prowl braced his forearm across Jazz's chest and pushed back with all his strength. "You have worked too hard to get to where you are just so you can ruin it with a rash decision!"

"Rash? Who's talking rash? Ah'm gonna make this nice and slow for him," Jazz sneered. "Thinks he can just break into a bot's quarters, does he? Little fragger gotta be taught a lesson – he ain't better than no one here, and he is gonna stop acting like it. Ah'll take him down a couple of damn pegs."

Feeling the express of power beneath the arm that braced against Jazz, Prowl pressed harder against it. He felt the bite of the saboteur's armour straining tensely against him. His senses sparked with the sharp awareness of the opposing electric field that flared stubbornly, the vibration of a low snarl, the press of heat and hard titanium alloy armour. In strange contrast, his battle computer was not abuzz with threat assessments.

Smokescreen rose from his seat, as if he meant to help, but then hung back warily when he could not bring himself to intercede. There was morbid fascination glinting in his shrewd gaze.

"Let meh go, Prowl," Jazz growled lowly, pressing hard against the arm that stayed him. His personal field flared, scoring against Prowl's. It did not hurt, no more than the touch of static electricity would, but it got the tactician's attention.

"I will not until I have your word that you will not go after Mirage for something Smokescreen only half remembers."

"Let meh go."

"This might not even be his doing!" Prowl exclaimed.

"Let meh go!"

The more he demanded with those petulant three words, the more Prowl wished he had a second arm to smack him with. He would even take the risk of dropping his arm just to swing around and give him a slap with his doorwing. In the end, reason won out over pettiness. "You are tired, Jazz! You are exhausted, and it is affecting your rationality! Calm down and think about what you are doing! How foolish you are being right now!"

"Ah swear ta Primus, ya let meh go right now or Ah'll break the one arm ya have left!"

"No!" Prowl snapped sharply. "I did not let you go in the Poles, and I will not let you go now. I will not let you go ever, no matter how you fight me. I will not allow you to go off half-cocked to do something that I know you will regret!"

Through the walls came the sound of angry fists thumping, demanding silence in the last moments of the early morning. There was only so much time to recharge - don't waste it! The sound of angry thumping shattered the intensity of the moment. Smokescreen glanced around guiltily, feeling as if he were witnessing something he should not. Jazz gave one last snarl before backing down, allowing Prowl to withdraw his arm and stand defiantly before his door. The relief that Prowl felt to know Jazz was calmed once more was enormous. He was not ashamed to plead with both words and expression to secure an oath from the saboteur.

"Give me your word, Jazz. Please."

The line of Jazz's mouth drew thin, nearly a scowl with a side of reluctance. How loath he was to barrel through Prowl like he fully knew he could, but equally loath was he to offer a vow he stupidly knew he would keep. It was true what Prowl had claimed; Jazz was exhausted, and more so that he was acting foolish. The sense of it was flickering in the saboteur's optics. More than that, disgust simmered that Smokescreen had seen him so riled. There was no point in losing face in front of anyone.

"Fine," he spat.

Prowl fought the urge to offer his most handsome smile, knowing it would only irk Jazz more. Instead, he was silent and waiting.

"Ya... have mah word," Jazz said slowly, through gritted mouthplates, like he were tasting something bitter.

Now Prowl let loose with his smile, though had sense enough to stay his chuckle lest he wanted a cuff upside the head in retribution. "Was that so hard?"

"Yes," Jazz sniffed, jerking his head as a means to demand Prowl step away from the door. He'd given his word; Prowl couldn't hold him.

The doorway was freed in a single sidestep, with Prowl offering an exaggerated wave into the hall. Jazz breezed past him in a silent temper, off to do whatever it was that the saboteur did when no one was around to watch him. Now that Mirage was off limits, perhaps he would scout out a new room to call his own, catch up with some of the Autobots who were closely aligned to him... or simply find some way to harass Mirage without it directly coming back to him.

Halfway down the hall, Jazz looked back at the storm-grey head watching him. Prowl pointed two fingers to his optics, then to Jazz in playful warning. _I'm watching you_. Jazz's reply gesture was a little more crude, but no less playful. When he disappeared around the corner, Prowl pulled his head back into the room and gave his attention to his remaining guest.

Smokescreen propped his hip on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. "That was mildly erotic."

"Mute it." Prowl quickly reclaimed his seat on the edge of his berth, signalling Smokescreen to do the same.

"Foreplay, then?" said the other tactician, taking his seat once again. The grin on his faceplate was irritating.

"It's not funny."

"You're right. It's _hilarious._"

Prowl's mouthplates thinned into a line sharp enough to cut diamonds.

"And don't think I was blind to the fact that you two _shared_ that berth last night. One of you could have recharged on the floor."

"There comes a certain amount of acceptance when two bots stay in close quarters over a long period of time," Prowl reasoned tightly. "It would not be unreasonable for you to share a berth with one of your comrades, and it is not unreasonable that I would share with one of mine."

"And what happens on the mission, stays on the- _Ow_!"

The sound of the butt of Jazz's dagger glancing off of Smokescreen's brow was rather satisfying. Prowl was pleasantly surprised by the accuracy of his aim and the effectiveness with which the light throw had silenced his fellow tactician.

Not looking to be a target for whatever else Prowl thought to throw, Smokescreen clamped his mouthplates shut with a mulish pout. Nevertheless, he did bend down to retrieve the dagger and hand it back to his brother. Probably a stupid move, but he didn't feel like being the one in possession of the blade when Jazz came looking for it.

"Shall we get down to business?" Prowl prompted, leaving 'business' open to his second's interpretation. He was anxious to see what Smokescreen wanted to address first, and it felt only right that their conversation be directed by the offended party of whom Prowl needed to apologize for acts most heinous and impolite.

Smokescreen acquiesced with an inclination of his head, the corners of his mouthplates turning down. He rubbed his brow absently, though it wasn't even scratched. His first order of business was to address the single most obvious trait about his brother. "You are an aft."

"Yes, I am." No sense in denying it.

"Do you have any clue how out of my mind I was when you ended that call?"

"I have a damning suspicion, but I imagine it falls short of reality."

There came a deep, restrained rev from the other tactician. "I'd punch you right now, but it doesn't feel right to punch someone who only has one arm." He kicked Prowl in the shin instead.

Prowl directed his gaze to his dinged shin, then back to his brother. "Because kicking me is so much better?"

Smokescreen shrugged. "It was something."

Knowing he deserved much worse, and appreciating Smokescreen for not meting out more than he did, Prowl nodded quietly. "I am sorry for what I did that night. I never should have said the things I did, never should have delivered the news in the manner it was delivered. It was callous, and a grievous tactical miscalculation on my part. I cannot imagine what you went through afterwards."

"Probably no worse than what you've been through," Smokescreen murmured, his gaze transfixed to the open hole in Prowl's shoulder. It was tender from Ratchet's investigations the night before.

"I felt nothing at the time," Prowl reminded him tightly.

"By the looks of things, you felt a pit of a lot before and after. You usually need a damn good reason to turn off your emotional centre – it's not like you turn it off whenever you get bored of being a feeler like the rest of us."

"This is very true."

Smokescreen leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands in a mirror of Prowl's pose. "If I were a lesser bot, I would still be furious with you. I would have done a pit of a lot more than just give you a tiny little ding on the leg. You are so lucky that our programming is enough alike that I could understand where you were coming from... as soon as I calmed down enough to think about it. Two fortnights is too long to be mad at you. I stopped being mad after the first. After that, I just wanted you home."

Prowl still kept his shamefaced expression downcast.

The sound of Smokescreen scraping his chair to get closer to the berth was obscenely loud. They both flinched at the obnoxious screech. Smokescreen's hand was warm and steady when it set down reassuringly on Prowl's knee. He was surprised not to have it pinched between his brother's fingers and guided away, the usual dismissal when it came to physical contact.

"I have been doing everything in my power to find out what happened to Hunter," he said. "Took some calling around, but I finally found him."

To this, Prowl looked up and met a royal blue gaze.

"After he spent a couple of orns at Tyger Pax's main Autobot stronghold for a couple more surgeries, he was transported back to Centaurie Tetrax. Their facilities are a little stretched right now, but it's not like they could turn down one of their own. They are furious with him for going AWOL, but are happy to have him back. He is still in serious condition, awaiting a frame for a full reformatting, but his spark is stable on life support for the time being."

Prowl let out the drag of air he had been holding.

"Hunter is going to be just fine," Smokescreen assured. "He always was my favourite." He winked playfully.

"And Kingpin..." Prowl hedged uncertainly.

The smile disappeared from his brother's faceplate. "I'm glad he's dead."

"That's a horrible thing to say," Prowl sighed.

Smokescreen shrugged. "So what? You've said as much throughout the vorns. Something like 'his affiliations are a stain on the reputation of our cadre' – that sounds familiar, doesn't it? It's not like you held any affection for him. You should be relieved he's dead. One less Decepticon for us to worry about."

The reminder caused Prowl to flinch. He hated that he had such an irrational guilt towards a bot who would have spared no guilt if he had murdered Prowl and Jazz and left them there in the wastelands. He had no affection for Kingpin, few good memories. The impetus for his guilt was in seeing Kingpin's death, and thinking one should feel more for the death of a cohort, yet failing to feel what he thought he should. Complicated indirect guilt.

"It was his decision to turn Decepticon," Smokescreen pressed. "He's the one who turned his back on everything we were ever programmed to do. Even before he turned, he was an aft. I don't imagine he was any better when you met up with him."

"No, he was no better. In fact, he was much worse." _Psi ex Machina_. The mere thought of it put a bad taste in Prowl's mouthplates. "Jazz put a blade through his head to stop him."

"And I bet Jazz had a very good reason to do it. I don't blame him for killing Kingpin anymore than I blame you." He eased up from his seat, turned, and sat next to Prowl so their doorwings touched. Not so close as to make Prowl uncomfortable, but close enough so that he did not feel so alone. Smokescreen's elbow as coaxing as he nudged him in the side. "Are you going to tell me what you were doing in a place that required your partner to kill our brother, or are you going to make me guess? Worse, are you going to make me read the report?"

To his ultimate surprise, Prowl gave a low chuckle. "No, I will tell you. It is the least I could do."

It was foreign and strange to sit back with Smokescreen and recount his harrowing experiences of the last six fortnights. Some details were carefully edited. The nature of Shockwave's labs was curbed, and the experiments within were not mentioned at all. Prowl made up for it by detailing the Poles, the energy surges that nigh drove him to insanity, his suspicions of the Decepticons able to set up an outpost so far down south unnoticed. Smokescreen listened attentively throughout, nodding in some places, grimacing in others. When there were no more words, they sat quietly on the berth and stared at their hands.

"That is going to be the least boring report you've ever written," Smokescreen commented absently.

"Perhaps," Prowl replied. It was also going to be the most edited report he'd ever written.

"I can't believe that Hunter followed you all the way out there."

"He always had a much more tenacious personality than the rest of us."

"And the rest of it, about Shockwave..."

"He is a bigger threat than we first anticipated."

"That only means Jazz will be more determined to go after him. I take it you will be assisting him in any way you can?"

Prowl slanted him an arch look. "Of course."

"Which means Tactical is going to want to help in any way we can." Smokescreen said confidently. "Primus, the two of you. Before you left, you could barely stand to be in the same room without starting a fight. Now it looks like I wouldn't be able to pry a crowbar between you."

Prowl revved uncomfortably, shifting his weight, refusing to take a sidelong glance at his second in command.

Smokescreen was the one who slid him the sidelong glance, lingering long enough on Prowl's faceplate. "I'm not saying it's a bad thing that you're moving on, Prowl."

Startled, Prowl jerked away. "What do you presume I am moving on from?"

"I might not know you as well as I would like, but I do know there's only been one bot in your life worth holding on to for so long." There was a sad chuckle as the other tactician shook his head, only to stop when his gaze was caught by the holopic on the desk. His chuckled stopped abruptly. "That picture..." He leaned up across the narrow space, snagged the data pad. His thumb circled over the image, touching each familiar faceplate. He lingered over Evasia's smiling form. "I remember when this picture was taken."

"As do I."

Smokescreen sat back again, staring down with fondness glinting in his optics. "You ever miss her?"

"Yes," Prowl admitted, finding that he croaked on that one word. His cleared his vents, steadying his vocal processor. "I used to try and forget about her."

"I know. You never talked about her. You withdrew into yourself. After she died, you just...shut down," Smokescreen sighed. "Hunter and I were so worried for you – everyone was, actually. Evasia was the only bot who could ever coax you to come out of your shell. Captain Raven worried for you the most. You were always his favourite."

Prowl shook his head. "Thinking about her hurt more than I wished to feel. Now I see that _not_ thinking about her made everything worse." He took the data pad in hand. "I find I am thinking about her more frequently as of late, and it does not hurt as much as it once did."

"Yeah?"

"It was not always my choice to think of her." Jazz delving into his head for memories. Hallucinations brought on by ambient EM energy. At night, his memory files played scenes of the past. "Now I remember that I have fond memories of her as well as painful ones."

"Like I said, you're finally moving on," Smokescreen said warmly, offering his brother a pat on the back. "It's healthy and natural, and it's a damn long time coming. Evasia would have wanted you to move on a long time ago."

Not quite as in control of his fickle spark as he would have liked, Prowl felt a twinge working its way up from his sparkcase and shifted uncomfortably. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Sure." Smokescreen slid to his feet and propped the data pad against the light fixture where he had snagged it. His expression was a mixture of sad fondness for a dead past and a subtle pride that Prowl was not the same bot as he was in the picture. That Prowl never would have posted a personal picture around his berth in the dorms.

"Come on, now it's my turn to show you what you've missed." A hand was extended, and Prowl quickly accepted the invitation to stand. "I've kept your office how you like it."

They travelled out into the hall together, finding that it had come the proper time for Autobots to be rising for their morning shifts, or otherwise returning to their berths after a graveyard shift. Their optics passed easily over Smokescreen, landing on Prowl with laser focus. Without fail, there was first surprise to see the Head Tactician, and then a form of abject delight and relief that Prowl had rarely seen before.

"Prowl!" Trailbreaker exclaimed, hurrying through the throng of Autobots. "Thank Primus you're back!"

Startled by the boisterous greeting, Prowl fought the urge to rear back and chastise the other Autobot for being disruptive.

Trailbreaker came to a puffing halt, seemingly ecstatic to see the proper Head Tactical Adviser standing before him. He then lifted an arm and pointed squarely at Smokescreen. "He is a monster!"

"What?" Smokescreen exclaimed, jaw dropping. "What did I do?"

Trailbreaker ignored him, pushing closer to Prowl, though not close enough to seem overly familiar. His mien was almost worshipful, which was something particularly foreign to Prowl. Fair to say that fear or irritation were more common expressions around him.

"When can you get on the schedule?" Trailbreaker asked. "It's been a fresh kind of pit around here with Smokescreen on it. Do you know he's been scheduling me in the mornings? In the _mornings_, Prowl, and on monitor duty!"

Prowl cast his second an amused look before arching his optic ridges at Trailbreaker. "That is quite unfortunate."

"It's been happening to everyone! Pathfinder got stuck working with Beachcomber, Firestar was scheduled on inventory by herself, I even saw Perceptor get stuck in the armouries! When can you fix it?"

"As soon as you allow me to get to my office and find out what other damages have been done," Prowl drawled dryly.

Appeased, Trailbreaker stepped aside and ushered Prowl along with a promise to check the roster every joor until it was updated. The encounter was not unique on their way to Prowl's office. Around every corner, there was a delighted shout from an eager bot, followed by exclamations of what had gone horribly wrong without him there to keep order. This was usually followed by demands for him to fix it right away. Scheduling, off-duty times, inventory records, drone programming, mediating disputes, meting out fair and proper punishments. In a short amount of time, Prowl was reminded of the dozens of responsibilities he had with Iacon - over and above the duties he would be regularly assigned as Head Adviser – and doubly reminded of how much he had missed his home.

In the commanders' hallway, lined with the offices of all resident commanders in Iacon, Smokescreen finally deigned to show his disgruntlement.

"I didn't think I was doing such a bad job."

In reply, Prowl cast him a pitying look. "Trailbreaker is most productive during evening shifts, least productive in the mornings; he is dismal at monitory duty, works best with Pathfinder doing perimeter runs. Beachcomber is distracted too easily while running perimeters, and he is too slow; monitor duty suits him best, preferably alone where he cannot incense anyone. Firestar should _never_ be placed on inventory – she has no motivation when left to her own devices, and the counting is always off. It goes without saying that Perceptor should never be placed anywhere near Ironhide or his armouries under any circumstance, no matter how desperate." Prowl shook his head. "I have this all noted in everyone's personnel files under 'Miscellaneous Notes Concerning Personality Evaluations and Aptitudes for Duty'. I even have a chart logging everyone's productivity compatibility to consult when the roster is being difficult."

Smokescreen offered an entirely disbelieving look. "Are you serious?"

Prowl shot him a patented _When am I ever not serious?_ look.

"Do I have one of those in my file" the other tactician asked uneasily.

"Your productivity is at its lowest during the earliest shifts, highest during mid-orn shifts to evening, but sinks again during graveyard. You work best with members of Intelligence & Espionage – scouts, not spies – as well as with members of your own division. You work poorly with any of the femmes – they distract you; you should never be scheduled with members of the engineering division. You are cerebral, they are more physical. Things exploded last time. Literally."

Once done with his perfect recitation, Prowl left Smokescreen gobsmacked on the threshold while he entered his office. He made a beeline for the familiar desk and immediately eased down into the seat as if it were a throne. He then mumbled, readjusted the chair for his height, and then sighed contentedly.

Smokescreen finally stepped into the room and let the door close behind him. "You are scary good, you know that?"

"I do."

"I have missed you so much, you and that scary processor of yours."

Prowl stared down at the organized piles of data pads on his desk, then clicked on his computer to consult what was lined up in the wings for him to do. It was... not the absolute worst it could have been. But, it was not necessarily the best either. He frowned, turned away from the computer to consult the data pads in front of him to figure out what sort of order Smokescreen was intending. Most pressing to least pressing? Chronological order? By division? Rank? Alphabetical order, even?

"Those are things I left for you until you got back," Smokescreen intoned, pointing to the pile nearest the computer. "And that pile right there are all the things that I had no idea what they were doing on your desk, but apparently you deal with them, so they're yours." He pointed to the next pile over. "I have one for finished reports that need to be logged, and another of invoices from supply convoys."

"And this pile?" Prowl wondered, pointing to a sad collection of pads sitting at the far corner.

"Sideswipe's pile."

"Sideswipe has been busy."

Smokescreen reached over and picked the top pad up, and the seven below it went with it. Every one of them had been glued together. "You have no idea how busy. It was just the buildup, though. Both of them finally exploded a couple or orns ago."

"I saw them in the med bay."

"Yeah, not a pretty sight." He rubbed his hands together, looking more than a little tired. "You think you remember your way around here?"

"I think I can manage. As I understand things, there is a schedule that needs desperate revising."

Smokescreen chuckled wryly.

"I am alright here," Prowl assured, dismissing with a wave of his hand. "You are exhausted and deserve some rest. I can take over from here."

"You sure?"

"Yes, of course. I do not imagine you could have done any more damage than the last time I was away for an extended period of time." He paused, inclining his head. "And as soon as I get my arm back and am deemed fully functional in all capacities, I will be putting you in for a temporary transfer."

Surprise made the other tactician jolt in his seat. "A transfer? Where?"

"Centaurie Tetrax," Prowl replies firmly. "We have... er- _family_ there currently recovering from an ordeal. I had my time with Hunter, I imagine you would like some as well. Not too much time, but I can arrange for some."

What came next was wholly unexpected, at least by Prowl. Smokescreen shot up from his seat and came around the desk in a flash, his arms wrapping tight around Prowl. A hug. A very tight hug that said a lot more than words ever could between them. Prowl felt the sudden urge to return the gesture, even raising his arm with that very intention, but could not bring himself to do it.

He ended up patting Smokescreen on the head.

* * *

Jazz was not sure where he thought he was going when he left Prowl's quarters. All he knew was that he could not hunt down Mirage to hurt him, either directly or indirectly. That limited his options severely.

He settled on fulfilling one personal need and go from there. Recharge was out of the question, having no room of his own at the moment and Prowl's room being occupied. Energon was the safest bet. Though he could definitely go for some high-grade, he was only going to find the regular stuff in the dispensation room. It was better than nothing.

So he found himself standing in front of the dispensation machine, peering at the controls and ignoring the stares he felt boring into his back. He blinked when the flickering lights appeared to blur together. A hand scrubbed over his faceplate, but it did little good. He snarled a low curse, wishing he had his visor to cover his faceplate. After a moment of consideration, he selected energon heated to just below incendiary temperature, and spiced with the hard kick of arsenic and cyanide.

"Hello, Jazz," Moonracer murmured cautiously as she sidled up to his side.

He peered down at the Neutral femme, offered a scowl, and then jerked his chin in greeting. When he turned for a table, Moonracer readily turned and sat across from him. Aside from her first greeting, she remained silent, waiting for Jazz to make the next move. Her nervousness was obvious. Jazz didn't look at her right away, choosing to indulge in his cube until his foul mood dissipated somewhat.

Elsewhere in the room, groggy bots stirred. Too early for their shifts, but too disturbed by whatever their memory files had replayed through the night for them to go back into recharge. It was a common enough occurrence. They hunched over their cubes, murmuring to their companions or else silently mulling over the orn to come. Most were in too deep a stupor to realize Jazz was among them.

When half his cube was gone, and the rest had cooled to a point where it no longer burned when he swallowed, Jazz finally acknowledge the small femme at his table. She wasn't the biggest femme he had ever seen, as Chromia held that distinction, nor was she the smallest, or the most beautiful. He still regarded her with the same opinions that had been shaped during their first encounter – she wasn't completely useless, but not quite as useful as he'd like her to be. Only thing decent about her was her never-ending list of random things she could do moderately well.

"So, Ah checked out what the bot with the yellow optic was doing with those Neutrals he was taking."

At this, Moonracer jerked straight, instantly hanging onto his words.

"That was some mission ya sent meh on."

Her gaze darted down to his missing finger, guilt clouding her expression.

Jazz leaned forward, shifting his hand so his missing appendage was not so obvious. "Just because Ah did this for ya this one time don't make meh your friend. Ah ain't gonna drop everything just because ya come calling with some sad story. Shockwave is the only reason Ah went."

"I know."

"Don't make meh out ta be some hero, because that ain't meh."

"I won't say anything."

"Good."

Moonracer shifted in her seat, casting an anxious gaze around the room as if to find some sort of strength. A friend, perhaps. There was no one in the immediate vicinity, no one to catch her optic. She sighed, ducked her head.

"He took them all the way down ta the South Pole," Jazz intoned in a low voice.

Moonracer's optics grew wide. "I've been to the Pole once – the north one, in Crystal Territory."

"Yeah, and how was it?"

"Horrible. You and Prowl really made it down there in that dinky ship they gave you?"

"Had ta be done," Jazz shrugged, swilling his cube before taking another draught of it. "We ended up going down into the gorge between Kaon and Tyger Pax, heading south as far as we could go. It's not a nice place down there."

"No, it's not."

"Shockwave set up a lab down there."

A shudder passed through the femme, her shoulders curling inward as a means of protecting herself. Her fists clenched in her lap. In a hoarse voice, she croaked, "How many labs could one mech possibly have?"

"Too many," Jazz replied darkly.

"Were... were you able to get into this lab?"

"Ah was." Jazz watched every subtle detail about the femme, from the way she started to shiver in fear to the hard clenching of her jaw. He felt terror radiate from her as if from a nuclear reactor, and he felt her desperate efforts to tamp down that fear in order to hear what had happened to the other Neutrals. There was strength there, but nothing Jazz could use. He imagined someone like her would be more useful to someone else.

When his observations carried on too long, Moonracer shot him a desperate look.

"Did you find the Neutrals?" she pleaded, searching his faceplate for any hint. Jazz could read each failed hope like they were stamped across his forehead. _Maybe he found them and was able to drop them off at the nearest Neutral camp. Maybe he rescued them, but they were too hurt and he had to drop them off at the nearest Autobot base. Maybe he got there and the Neutrals had already escaped on their own. _Each one was a hope that Jazz knew he would have to dash out with the truth, and what a horrible truth it was. The nightmare that Shockwave had turned reality, what he had done to those poor bots... No one deserved to have that hanging over their heads.

"They were already dead, Moonracer," Jazz sighed, suddenly hating the stricken look in the femme's optics. He shuttered his optics and looked away. "By the time Prowl and Ah got there, Shockwave had already done his damage. None were left."

Shaking hands clamped over trembling mouthplates, muffling the choked cry that escaped.

Jazz wondered why she suffered such an intense reaction. The Neutrals had not been part of her group; she had come only because of rumours that had been passed through the camps. Then he remembered than not everyone was as callous as himself. Some bots cared about others simply for the sake of caring for them, even in death. Perhaps Moonracer felt for them because she knew a fraction of what they went through.

"Ah'm sorry," he mumbled.

She did not seem to hear him. Her optics shuttered, shoulders shaking. She cried silently for the dead she could not save. More victims of the war she hated so passionately.

Jazz finished his cube while she cried. There was nothing else for him to do, and it did not feel right to simply get up and walk away. When the last dregs of his energon were gone, his energy reserves were blessedly looking a little better, but the energon itself soured in his tanks while the poor femme sobbed alone. He really wanted to tell her to stop it, because crying never did anyone any good. Crying didn't bring back the dead.

He thought of the feeling of Blackarchnia's head cradled so gently in his arms, the feel of her rotted skin grafts and rusted, pussing metal brushing against his armour. The moment of tension when he jerked in one sure movement, one smooth slash across her neck. Warmth of life rushing away, slippery fluid quickly turning cold. Jazz never cried for her, or for any of Shockwave's creations. Jazz had never cried for anyone in a very long time.

After a time, Jazz looked over at the femme and saw that she had finally gotten a grip on herself.

"Thank you for going, Jazz," she said thickly, her gaze downcast.

"Ah didn't do it for ya," he replied.

"But you went, and that's enough." She pushed away from the table, taking to her feet in one slow movement. The new deaths hung off her as if turned into physical weights dragging her down.

"There's still a matter of payment," Jazz intoned to her back, watching as new tension straightened her spine.

"You just said you didn't do this for me," Moonracer said tightly.

"True, but ya are the one who brought it ta mah attention. Ah don't like doing stuff for free." Plus, in a way, it was Jazz's way of cheering her up. He had nothing positive to tell her to make this any better, so he would give her something else to take her mind off of things. If that meant making her angry, then that was the best he could do.

Slowly, she turned back to him with a soured frown. "What do you want?"

"You."

Startled, she jerked back with actual fear in her optics.

Jazz snorted, shaking his head. "Not like that. Ya ain't mah type by a long shot."

"Then what?"

He leaned forward on his elbows, resting his chin on his knuckles. "You're that special kind of useful useless that the Autobots seem to be teeming with. They could always use some more. Enlist."

Stunned, she stared with her mouthplates gaping.

Jazz cocked a haughty optic ridge. "Enlist."

"Why?"

"Ah just said why." He sat back, staring down the length of his olfactory sensor at her. "Ya have ta pay meh sometime, or else Ah'll come back ta haunt ya. Do as Ah ask now, or Ah might ask for something worse later."

Visibly shaken by the veiled threat, Moonracer stumbled back a step. Anger and indecision warred in her gaze, but at least there was no sadness. Her chin went up, chest out. Now she was remembering what a horrible bot Jazz could be. He really was no one's hero.

"I'll think about it," she announced tightly, spinning on her heel and marching away.

"I'll expect ta hear the good news soon!" Jazz sneered at her back, stopping abruptly the moment she was gone. He sighed at himself, deciding that he had taken his foul mood out on her in the end. He found himself resenting Smokescreen for coming so early in the morning, before Jazz could get his proper bearings and be prepared for the orn. More energon was necessary.

By the time he returned to the dispensation machine, there was a small line. The time was now upon the base for bots to start rising en mass for their shifts. Some were still in their groggy stupor, barely able to see a silver serpentine creature out of the corner of their optics. Others brightened upon spotting the saboteur, offering warm welcomes that were totally at odds with the empty quarters Jazz had come home to.

When he turned to move back to his table, he froze. The table was no longer empty. Danger whispered in Jazz's audios.

Teeming from one end to the other, over-ridden with chairs stolen from all surrounding areas, were the femmes. Perhaps a dozen of them, nearly the whole role call of the small but elite collection. They sat with obvious intention, waiting, their sharp gazes upon him like predators targeting prey. Firestar was there, her mad grin on display as she offered a beckoning wave. Even more surprising was Elita One and Chromia sitting among their subordinates, a rare sight – and an unnerving one. Elita One sat in the seat Jazz had just left, and she did not look like she would leave it for him.

With the utmost caution, Jazz approached.

"Sit," Elita One invited with deceptive sweetness.

Chromia kicked out an empty chair for him.

"Ah'll stand," Jazz said, sipping from his cube.

Elita sipped from her own cube - where she got it was a mystery. Where the whole lot of them came from without Jazz seeing was another mystery he was not sure he wanted answered. They were watching him too closely, like a toy they wanted to take apart to see what made it tick. There was nothing more dangerous than a femme who decided to invest her interest in a single thing.

"Your recruiting technique could use some work," Chromia scoffed.

"Hard ta pitch a gig Ah've never worked," Jazz dismissed flatly.

They all seemed to find that funny, twittering in a way that made the saboteur's hackles rise. He started calculating if he had any chance at all of escaping. No escape – femmes were designed to be fast and agile, out-ranking his own frame design. Fight them? Not too many to fight, but he didn't like his chances against Chromia.

"We never heard anything about your return," Elita One intoned. "It would have been nice to hear that you were coming."

"It'd be nice if Ah had a table all ta mahself without it crawling with femmes, but we can't all get what we want."

"So sharp in the mornings," Elita One chastised lightly, undaunted. "Maybe if you finished your second cube, you wouldn't be so ornery."

"Don't bet on it."

"Oh, I've missed you, my crazy Jazzy!" Firestar cooed fondly, looking for all the world like she would enjoy it very much if Jazz lashed out at her and threw her across the room. Crazy, stupid femme.

"I think we've all missed you, _Jazzy_," Chromia sneered meanly – which seemed to be the closest thing she came to being nice. Not that Jazz was interested in nice.

"Too bad Ah can't say the same about any of you," he replied flatly. "Ah guess Ah'll go enjoy mah energon elsewhere before ya all make meh purge it."

He nearly made it out the door before Elita One called him back.

"Where do you think you're going to enjoy that energon, hmm?" she wondered lightly. "You would need a room for that, and you don't have one."

Jazz rounded on her, containing the instant flare of rage. "What would ya know about that?"

Silvered optic ridges rose delicately beneath the arch of rose-painted armour. "I may know a thing or two more than you know."

As if reading his mind, Chromia said, "Mirage had nothing to do with it. Red Alert caught him picking the lock on your room and I stopped him."

Jazz's white gaze flared, and then narrowed to laser precision. "It was _you_."

"I won't take credit," Chromia snorted. "I was just there for the heavy lifting. Elita One cracked the lock. You're an impressive coder."

"Ah'll try not ta let the praise go ta mah head," Jazz sneered, nearing the table with deadly grace. "Where did you put mah stuff?"

Elita rose from her seat, causing the rest of her division to rise immediately after. She came around the table to Jazz's side, fearlessly threading her arm around Jazz's as if she were not taunting a very dangerous beast. In moments, Jazz was surrounded on all sides by creatures who were either his height or smaller, all of them quick and mean, with sharp optics that knew more than they were willing to say. Chromia was the only one taller than him, the only one who was a shade more vicious than she was sneaky. Realizing they had him surrounded, Jazz put himself on high alert.

"Come," Elita One bid, tugging the saboteur to the door. He followed because he had no other choice.

They left behind a stunned roomful of Autobots who could not decide if they were watching a single bot off to his death by a pack of femmes, or a pack of femmes off to their death by a single bot.

Jazz was guided back through familiar hallways, feeling incensed all the way. He glared down at the delicate arm that held him more effectively than any restraint, then glared at the femme attached to it. He felt Chromia's glare boring into the side of his head. He ignored Firestar's purring as she rubbed up against him, and the rest of the femmes as they twittered amongst themselves with their mean optics glittering like shards of ice.

They passed Prowl's room, but it was empty.

Beyond that familiar doorway, Elita pressed Jazz onward. Around a corner, another corridor, down a flight of stairs to the second level of the barracks. Their small parade finally came to a halt at the far end of the hall, in front of a nondescript door.

"What do you think?" Elita One wondered, tightening her arm around Jazz's, leaning into his side with a knowing smile.

"It's a door," Jazz observed dryly, suspicions starting to sneak their way past his defences.

"If we knew you were coming, it would look a little more appropriate for the occasion," Elita replied, commanding Chromia to unlock the door with a flick of her fingers. "The truth of the matter is, what you had was wholly inappropriate for the position that you hold here. You needed something a little more in line with the value of the work that you have been doing for us. This is the least we could do."

Before him, the door hissed open and a light flickered on. He suddenly discovered where all his missing stuff had gone.

Elita One leaned her head against his arm fondly, her smile true and affectionate as she said, "Welcome home, Jazz."


	44. Chapter 44

Hello, my dearsparks. I know it has been a while. I am sorry. Life has been life, and we all know how that has a tendency to suck one's will to live out. But Prowl and Jazz are back, and you may all frolic with the knowledge that the story has not abruptly ended. There is still to much story to tell. =P

My dearest thanks to all my readers and reviewers who have held on to the strings of their sanity while waiting for my lazy ass to write this stupid chapter. You can all thank **Atsadific** for pushing me to finish this chapter while I have been staying with her in England. As always, your love, enthusiasm, and wild flailing has given me the strength and inspiration to persevere with this story. So, my thanks to **brohne, Fianna9, Tiamat1972, CnightJoy, DemonSuffer, Faecat, Komi V, Gilded Orchid, Camfield, Poiseninja, luinrina, Nikkie2010, Kidara, Queen of the Red Skittle, Yami Dragoness of Dark, Exactlywhat, VyxenSkye, Agent 0r4gn3, Gamermice, renegadewriter8, DragonLady86, Christarpax, who-says-we-cant-win** (sorry for the dashes, fanfiction wouldn't allow for the periods)**, Field Empathy, Kai-Chan94, Emi, kathy3meme, Peacewish, Alathea2, Guest, White Morticia, Randomstrike, Ano-Hitori-Chichi, MoonWallker, Daklog73, Sideslip, Wanderling, TheVastaNararda, Lurker, Midnight Marquis, xdragonslayerx, Bluebird Soaring, Optimus Bob, evilbunny777, savyandroid, Krysala, JenEvan, Lecidre, Ien, mamabot, SunlightOnTheWater, yamiishot, Dragonstormgirl, RagdolDark, Mercedes Wolfcry, 4N7, Leonixon, 16DarkMidnight80, FIREstee, Guest, geuss, m, warperchick,** and **SolusWarrior93. **Thank you all~

**Where You and I Collide  
Chapter 44**

Not even home for an orn and Prowl settled back into the routine of his life as if he had never left.

It was... _comforting _to be back. Yes, comforting. It took a breem to decide on the exact word to describe his current physical-emotional state, and it seemed 'comforted' was the best in this instance. Iacon was where regimented order reigned – at least for the most part; where all inner workings operated as a well-oiled machine, undisturbed by Prowl's absence... with the exception of Smokescreen's scheduling abilities.

To be within Iacon's sacred walls meant Prowl was back in his seat of power, where he and his logic reigned nearly supreme.

As his first order of business, Prowl redid the roster.

He could not change anything for the current orn, but he did so for the following orn and the next cycle afterward. While many on base held little notion of the many difficulties inherent in creating a base-wide schedule, it took a certain knack to create something akin to a clockwork masterpiece. It was not simply taking the right bots and sticking them in the appropriate slots. At any given time, Iacon's population was in flux as bots were sent out on missions, coming back on missions, recovering in the ICU, locked in the brig, or otherwise on modified duty. It was up to the base scheduler to deal with the constant flux and movement of the Autobot warriors, scheduling around their needs and activities so that all operations and functions of the base were covered.

Without any pride at all, Prowl could own up to his unquestionable organizational genius.

Unfortunately, Smokescreen... was less apt when it came to creating the physical evidence of perfection. It was one of his many shortcomings, aberrations in his programming that Prowl attributed to corruptions somewhere in his data files, because clearly it was not native programming they shared. For Smokescreen's sake, Prowl no longer commented on it. That often.

Upon posting the retouched schedule, Prowl's personal inbox promptly began to fill with messages of gratitude. A strange and bewildering experience, distracting in its odd frequency, and Prowl hoped it did not continue. To be praised for a duty expected of him was superfluous and disturbing.

_It's about time! _Trailbreaker's message read, astroseconds after the schedule had been reposted. _Thank Primus you fixed everything!_

_Thanks, Prowl! _another cheerful message said.

_You're back?_ Someone wrote. _You fixed the schedule?! I thought I was going to have to work with Mirage tomorrow!_

Smokescreen's message showed up not long after. _You are suddenly Number One Bot on base. Everyone loves you and they are singing your praises. I think I'm jealous. _

Prowl did not respond to any of the messages, not even Smokescreen's. It was best not to encourage the behaviour.

Sometime shortly after mid-orn, his door hissed open and Red Alert marched in. The Security Director appeared his usual self, bright red paint accented with crisp white. He stood at the in-between height range of a mech and minibot, a little too thin in build for proper defence in battle but excellent for speed and agility. His slighty awkward appearance matched his twitchy personality.

"You," said Red Alert, pointing one long, trembling digit directly at Prowl.

Prowl arched an optic ridge, setting down the pile of Sideswipe's data pads he had been in the process of prying apart. "Yes?"

"_You." _

"Yes, we have established that, Red Alert. I have been away for too long. I have work to catch up on. Get to the point... please."

The flatness of his tone had its expected effect. Red Alert jerked back, his spinal column snapping straight. The small crystal apertures atop his head flickered briefly. Much to Prowl's surprise, relief flooded Red Alert's features, something akin to hero worship and perhaps adoration.

"Prowl," began the Security Direction after taking a steadying drag of air, "don't take this the wrong way, but you must _never_ leave this base again. Ever."

"I beg your pardon?"

Those crystal apertures flickered once more. "I really do not think Iacon or myself will be able to take it if you went on an extended leave again."

Intrigued, though mostly annoyed, Prowl raised an optic ridge. "Please elaborate."

"Without exaggerating, both you and I can agree that there are few others around here of your calibre. As a commander, you are an exemplary representation of Autobot ideals-"

Prowl withheld the grimace that wished to make itself known.

"You have enviable finely-wrought control over your division, other Autobot warriors, and over yourself-"

Again, he fought the urge to grimace.

Red Alert was poised to continue his recital of all of Prowl's extraordinary – though, unfortunately, questionable – virtues, the tactician quickly intervened before the account could become anymore damning.

"Red Alert, I understand what you are saying about me, but what I do not understand is why you are saying them. Care to explain?" And since Prowl did not mean that as a _carte blanche_ for Red Alert to run away on another random train of thought, he immediately amended with, "Please be as quick and concise as possible. Preferably in one sentence."

Understandably, Red Alert took a moment to consider his words carefully. "You are the only thing in Iacon standing between the proper operation of this entire base and complete and total utterchaos_._"

Because such a statement lacked an sort of proper prescribed response, Prowl was briefly at a loss before murmuring a slightly questioning, "Thank you?"

"It's true."

"Although I understand that what you say is a gross exaggeration of reality, nevertheless I must thank you again."

Mildly irritated by Prowl's seeming humility, Red Alert pressed on insistently. "I know that you and Smokescreen come from the same cadre, but, well, honestly – no one would guess the same programming. He does not have the same intense, straightforward drive that you have towards your function. I am proud to be a commander alongside you. There are not many who are like you, Prowl. Primus knows, I wish there were more."

A ghost of a smile lit the corner of Prowl's mouthplates. "I often wish the same thing."

A jittery laugh, replete with relief that his meaning had finally gotten across, drifted from the other bot. "Now, I imagine I should leave, shouldn't I? You have work to do, and I can't leave the cameras unattended for too long. Before I go, though, I just wanted to mention something that I heard while you were away. Perhaps you might find it interesting."

"Oh?" Prowl did not need to feign interest. Red Alert was not among the typical gossipmongers, and certainly Prowl was not the typical Autobot interested in anything gossip-related, so this unprecedented instance gained Prowl's undivided attention.

"Yes, well... mind you, this is not in any way official-" Red Alert raised his hands in a calming gesture, as if Prowl might possibly get overexcited by the coming news, "but I have heard that Ultra Magnus is considering stepping down from being Optimus's second in command for the Autobots. Operating in that capacity as well as base commander is apparently taxing for him."

"I would imagine."

Red Alert nodded readily. "If he steps down, you can be sure that I will nominate you as his replacement. I can think of none other who would be more appropriate. Now, I really must go. It was good catching up with you Prowl, and it is doubly good to have you back." With that said, he gave a shaky smile – one that constantly looked like it was out of practice – and quickly turned down the hall to return to the safety of his isolated alcove.

Prowl stared after the bot long after he was gone. He gave his head a shake, determinedly returning to his work, battle computer comfortably assigned to work while his inflective conscious considered other matters.

Second in Command? He couldn't say that the thought had never crossed his mind. It was a part of his programming to strive for advancement. He was already the Head Tactical Adviser for Iacon; given that Iacon was the highest ranked base of the Autobot forces, there was no higher position within the Autobot-wide tactical division. The next logical step would be to strive for a position beyond the base divisions. Optimus Prime's Golden Circle, his personal advisers and commanders who helped to oversee the Autobots in their totality.

It was the absolute summit of advancement for someone like Prowl in the Cybertronian's current war-beleaguered circumstances. It bore more consideration in the future, but for the time being Prowl could not see that he would have been an appropriate candidate. He was not as in-control as he wanted to be, and might pose as more of a risk to the Autobots than an asset if he took such an important appointment.

Plus, _Jazz_. Not that Jazz himself was a tactical risk anymore, no more than a particularly unpredictable wild card, but Prowl had the personal obligations to his partner and friend. It would not be borne that Prowl sit idle while Jazz risked his life waging a one-bot war against the vilest scum the Cybertronian species had to offer. With their recent excursion into the wilds of Cybertron as evidence, Prowl was not a frontline bot; he was a thinker, planner, and organizer – and on that front, he had vast stores of resources at his disposal with which to aid Jazz. Until Prowl could be sure that Jazz was secure and stable, relatively speaking, than it was in the Autobots' best interest that he refrain from looking too deeply into advancing his position in the ranks.

"Red Alert will simply have to understand," Prowl murmured to himself, while knowing full well that Red Alert would do no such thing.

Having decided a particular course of action, steel-plated with solid logic that best served the Autobot cause, Prowl thrust himself back into his work. He was relieved that the remainder of his orn was far less eventful than his beginning. He was mildly inconvenienced by his handicaps, as any bot would be when missing an arm and voided of the essential use of his absent interface panel, but that only meant that the going was slow, not impossible.

At the end of the orn, an energon cube prepared to his specific tastes was set in front of him.

Forced to pause to pick up the cube and sip from it, Prowl looked up in time to watch Jazz sprawl comfortably in the chair across from him. The saboteur's visor was back in place. His silver armour was clean, and obviously he had been buffed sometime during the orn if his devilishly polished looks were any indication.

With another sip from his energon cube, Prowl settled for a much-needed social interlude. Jazz was easily the most acceptable reason on base to take a break, particularly to solve the delightful mystery of his much-improved mood.

"This," Prowl intoned with a toast of his cube, "is exactly what I needed right at this very moment."

"Ah know," Jazz replied. "We got woken up early and even Ah'm a little tired at this point. Figured ya worked the whole orn in here. Ya definitely needed the cube."

Prowl inclined his head gratefully, watching the silver mech over the rim of his cube as he took another slow sip. He was smiling when he lowered the rim. "You are in a much improved mood."

"Ya noticed that, did ya?" There came a playful smirk, far less tense than it had been in a long time.

"Indeed," Prowl confirmed in a similarly playful vein. "Given the activities that typically put you into good moods, who did you irreparably traumatize?"

"Mirage."

Prowl momentarily looked panicked, enough for Jazz to laugh at him.

"Ah'm joking."

"Oh... good."

Jazz paused. "Ya... want meh ta traumatize him?"

"No."

"Ya hesitated there."

"I had to think about it."

Jazz laughed again.

Prowl felt the corners of his mouthplates twitch in response. "I assume you have found your missing stuff, or else you would not be in such a good mood."

Jazz's smirk evolved into one of his rare smiles. He touched the cool diamond of his visor, running one of his battered claws along the bottom edge with a loving caress. "Yeah, found mah stuff. It wasn't as bad as Ah thought it was."

"The Autobots weren't unceremoniously kicking you out?"

"Nah, nothing like that. Ah jumped ta conclusions."

"You admit to this freely?" Prowl wondered, casting a playfully disbelieving look.

"Only in front of you. No one else."

Prowl dared a wider smile of his own. "Who took it?"

"Guess."

One astrosecond later and a thousand possibilities calculated by his battle computer, Prowl said, "The femmes."

Jazz rolled his optics, though the effect was lessened by the diamond shield hiding the gesture. "That wasn't a guess."

"Who needs guessing when I have superior logistical programming on my side?" He leaned forward, unusually eager to hear the details of Jazz's excursion, despite his marked dislike for gossip. If it was something that clearly cheered Jazz, rather than put him in a fouler mood, then apparently its importance was paramount to Prowl. He gestured invitingly with his hand as he said, "Now, tell me what happened in your encounter with the femmes. Spare no details."

Happy to oblige, Jazz took a draught of his energon before recounting the details of his harrowing encounter. He spared no details, much to Prowl's approval. It was a bit like living vicariously, seeing the world briefly through Jazz's optics; the world appeared more colourful, somehow blurred together and sharp at the same time, detailed in ways that Prowl had never known the world could be before he had met Jazz. And as Jazz spoke, the tensions of their journey lessened and became distant. They eased back, relaxing, remembering what it was like to be a part of Iacon, to be as they were while in Iacon.

Jazz kicked his feet up on the edge of the desk, crossing his ankles comfortably. "So, that's where Ah've been for most of the orn. Got cleaned up and polished at one point, but mostly Ah've been sorting through mah stuff ta make sure the femmes didn't break anything."

"I can't say this is unusual for their division," Prowl intoned, staring down at his cube pensively. "The femmes are elitist; they have always operated beyond the realm of our regular divisions."

"If they want something done, they get it done," Jazz said. "Ah can relate ta that. But Ah'd rather they kept their claws off mah stuff."

"Good luck with trying to enforce that," Prowl snorted. "What they lack in strength, they make up for in their propensity for scheming. Elita One especially. She the most shrewd creature I have ever encountered. But this? Stealing away your possessions, simply to assign you a new room? It seems unusually... _involved_. She seems to have fixated on you, even long before this obvious episode."

"Fixated, yeah, that's a good word for it. Her and her whole division seem to have taken it inta their heads that Ah'm their favourite amusement." Jazz took a swig of his nearly empty cube. His tone was, surprisingly, only a little bit annoyed that he had vicious creatures possessed of questionable interests involving themselves in his business.

Prowl watched his friend for a moment, gauging the half-hidden expression on Jazz's faceplate. At one time, to acknowledge such nosiness would have been enough to throw Jazz into tailspin that would have left someone in the med bay – most likely Firestar, the most accessible of the femmes, and the one most likely to stick her fingers too close to the open flame that was Jazz. Now Prowl saw acceptance and resignation on Jazz's faceplate, that he simply acknowledged that the femmes' scheming was merely a way of life, a part of _his_ life. Perhaps he would deliver revenge in some obscure and inventive way, but no one's life was at risk.

Prowl felt proud to know Jazz had come so far in the last two vorns.

But still, that did not excuse Elita One and her femmes from what they had done. To Jazz, he said, "Don't take this personally, but whyever would they involve themselves with you?"

Jazz snorted, glancing over his shoulder towards the door that was firmly shut, without evidence of any femmes lurking nearby. "Ah have been asking mahself the same thing ever since the orn Firestar flopped her lazy red aft in front of meh and said Elita One told her ta follow meh around. From orn one, that femme saw something in meh that... Ah don't know."

Prowl felt himself smiling at his friend. "Perhaps she saw what I saw."

"The tactical advantage of having someone like meh on your side?"

"That too, but I was going to say 'potential.'" When Jazz shot him a quizzical look, Prowl smiled wider. "I saw the way you so lost when you ran out of Straxis with me, and I knew there was a chance that you could be more than what you were. And now look at you, proving me right."

Jazz looked away, shifting his weight uncomfortably in his seat. "Ah'm not an Autobot."

"I am not pushing you to become one," Prowl reminded. "The decision is yours to make. As of this moment, I am simply happy that you are here with me." He paused, clearing his vents. "I mean... I am happy that you have decided to stay as long as you have here."

"Ah am happy that Ah've stayed as long as Ah have," Jazz replied. "Who knows? Maybe some orn Ah'll wear that stupid red decal."

"I can hope," Prowl said. "And it's not stupid."

Jazz laughed. "Let's not get inta that right now, okay? We barely just got back. Let's settle back in before debating the questionable design choices of your faction, yeah?"

"Agreed," Prowl sighed. "So what will you do about the femmes? I assume you are going to repay them for this?"

Silver shoulders jerked up in a simple shrug. "Don't know, Ah gotta think about it first. The whole lot of them didn't mean any harm, not really. It's not like they meant ta make off with mah stuff and never tell meh."

"Oh?"

Jazz inclined his head. "They were expecting us ta announce our return, and they probably meant to surprise meh with the room."

"Ah, yes, and I can see how their plans would have been disrupted by our silent and abrupt return," Prowl agreed. "Perhaps next time we go out on a life-threatening secret mission serving one of your personal agendas, we leave our itinerary with them?"

The snort that came out of Jazz was enough of a response.

"What do you make of it?" Prowl wondered, catching the saboteur's gaze. "The room, I mean – is it a nice one? Elita One wouldn't have given you some hole in the wall, not unless she wanted to declare war with you."

"Her declare war? She's too classy for that. It'd be Chromia at the top of the battlements screaming it at full volume." Jazz shook his head, a smile gracing the upturned curve of his handsome mouthplates. "As for the room, it's right in the barracks. Right in the spark of things with everyone else, actually. Four walls and a roof. Not much else Ah can say about it."

Curious, Prowl clicked into Iacon's database and accessed room assignments. He was impressed to see that someone had updated the floor plan – a duty that normally fell to _him_. Without a doubt, he knew the femmes were responsible for this, as if updating room assignments made Jazz's new quarters official and irrevocable. Their Word Was Law. Prowl might take exception to their high-handed behaviour, particularly where it toed the line superceding the socio-political power hierarchies on base, but in this he could easily cede to their choices.

Jazz got up and came around the desk, bracing one hand on the back of Prowl's chair to lean over and peer down at the screen. He was close enough that their fields mingled, and Prowl felt his partner's heat radiate from him. The saboteur's expression was curious as he examined the blueprints displayed on the screen, no doubt memorizing them to know who was nearest his room and find out who the greatest threats were.

Prowl shifted aside to offer a better view of the screen. "Not a bad room, good size, decent placement. Your current neighbors are all respectable Autobots I have never had any trouble with, so the noise levels should remain at a minimum."

"Ah like noise."

"Then make it yourself."

"Only if you're with meh." Jazz's sudden grin was salacious.

"I walked right into that one," Prowl sighed, wishing he had the spare arm to reach back and elbow his partner.

"So, who am Ah stealing this room from?" Jazz asked.

With a quick check, Prowl supplied the answer. "Previously inhabited by Crosshairs."

"Armouries?" Jazz enquired, not familiar with the mech but guessing his division simply by the designation.

Prowl nodded. "Apparently transferred out to Axium Nexus, under Ironhide's orders to help train with a new short-range high-yield laser weapon he and Wheeljack have been developing. The femmes must have been circling the room even before its inhabitant left. Probably harassed him to leave sooner so they could stake their claim."

"Sounds like something they would do," Jazz drawled, staring at the floorplan. He followed the hallways down a carefully selected route. "It's close ta your room."

"I noticed."

Another suggestive smile lit Jazz's silver faceplate. "Don't lock your door at night."

Prowl sighed again, rolling his optics. "I stopped bothering with that a long time ago." But quickly after that statement, they both laughed with easy humour. Jazz was still laughing when he made his way back around the desk to his seat. His empty energon cube was tossed expertly into the waste receptacle. Prowl took up his own, nearly empty now, and took a long draught to finish it up quickly.

Jazz gave a nod towards the cube. "There's filter cleaner in there, but Ah doubt it's going to do much at this point. We've taken in so much junk that even mah filters are clogged up tight. Both of us are going to need internal rehauling."

"And wouldn't Ratchet be thrilled to hear that?" Prowl drawled wryly.

"It's an easy fix," Jazz said. "If things calm down in the med bay soon, ya could probably get First Aid ta do it for ya without Ratchet ever finding out. It's barely surgery, just sliding the dirty filters out and slapping new ones in."

"I will keep that in mind if my filter issues persist." Prowl turned back to the blueprints still showing on his screen, considering them for a moment. "Did the femmes put everything of yours back in its proper place after they relocated it?"

"As best they could, Ah imagine. Some things were off. Ah spent most of the orn fixing everything they messed up. Plus..." Jazz dug into his subspace pocket and dropped a small collection of delicate-looking trinkets across the space of Prowl's desk. "Five listening devices, two spy cameras, one spark resonance reader, and the locking code for Firestar's quarters accompanied by the message '_Any time you want it_.' Ah suppose this is their version of 'Welcome Home' gifts."

Prowl locked onto the last listed item, leaning across the desk to pluck it up and immediately tossed it into the waste receptacle.

Jazz calmly watched the security code and its invitation disappear. "Ah didn't want that one, anyways."

"Good," Prowl snorted through his vents. "She is still seeing both Red Alert and Inferno. I do not imagine they would appreciate their trio becoming a quartet."

Jazz grimaced as if a bad taste hit his mouthplates. "She ain't mah type anyways."

"Again, good. Firestar is not for everyone, even if she might give that impression. Incidentally, Red Alert came by earlier," Prowl intoned.

"And? What did Twitchy have ta say?"

"He came by..." Prowl hesitated, rethinking the wisdom of informing Jazz of the distant possibility of a promotion. That was a matter to be dealt with later. So, instead, he said, "He came by to welcome me back and inform me that I am the only thing standing between the proper operation of this base and utter chaos."

The flash across Jazz's faceplate said that he had caught Prowl's pause.

"He has always been one to exaggerate situations," Prowl pressed.

"Yeah."

Prowl shifted his attention away, regretting that single moment of impulsiveness. He felt the immediate urge to berate himself for acting without thoroughly considering all possibilities first, only to squelch the thought.

He felt Jazz's watchful gaze on him while he sifted through the collection of spyware. He picked pieces up and examined them with more interest than necessary.

"The femmes could have at least waited until you were settled in before rigging your room," Prowl suddenly intoned, feeling in need of some sort of verbal interlude. "This is in poor taste, even for them." He held up one listening device to examine it under the glare of his office light. Impressed with it, he held it up to Jazz. "Mind if I keep this one?"

"Be mah guest."

Making sure it was turned off, Prowl stashed it in his drawer and already considered the possibilities of its use. His expression was purposefully bland as he said, "I hope you do not plan to retaliate. They did go to all the trouble of moving your stuff in the first place, and they undoubtedly had meant it in a kind gesture."

"They're safe from meh," Jazz murmured. "Ah don't feel like going through all the fuss of retaliating for something that Ah actually appreciate. Maybe later Ah'll think of something, but right now Ah'm tired and got too much on mah mind."

"That is a relief, at least." Prowl noted Jazz's expression, more pensive than usual. Though he could not say exactly for certain the things that churned in the saboteur's mind, he had superior logistical programming on his side. "You are thinking about what happened in Shockwave's lab, aren't you?"

Jazz immediately shot to his feet, so suddenly that Prowl worried that he would storm out and disappear. No such thing happened. Jazz merely circled back to the door, locked it, and came back to his seat. Instead of resuming his comfortable spawl, he sat up properly, which Prowl knew was an indication of how serious Jazz was about the particular topic at hand. Another indication was the silence that lay like a heavy cloak about him.

The light shining through the saboteur's visor seemed especially intense as he spoke. "We can't let things go cold, Prowler. This is too important to let Shockwave slip between our fingers." He clasped his own fingers before him, resting his chin upon the perch while his elbows braced against his knees. "Ya saw what he was doing out there... Ah've never seen anything like it. Ah've never even _heard_ of anything like it."

"I have been considering every possibility of what Shockwave is doing, but there is no outcome that seems feasible to me," Prowl admitted. "It is science seemingly without purpose, without rules or morality. If he functioned as he has been doing before the war, the Research Core would have shut him down-"

"_If _they knew about him," Jazz intoned darkly. "Ah get the feeling Shockwave's been around for a while, but stuck ta the underbelly of Cybertron like Ah did. It's easier ta hide in the dark."

Prowl felt a prickling of cold awareness creep down his armour. "You think he might be an Old One?"

"Possibly." Jazz stared down at the shadow cast by Prowl's desk, contemplating it solemnly. "It's just a feeling Ah get; he's too knowing, too practiced, ta be new at this game. Shockwave has had a lot of time ta get good at what he does, whatever it's supposed ta be."

"I would hesitate to call it even 'science'," Prowl said. "It is unmitigated torture, a disgusting perversion. What he hopes to achieve from his efforts is beyond me."

Light from above glinted off of Jazz's newly polished horns as he nodded. "We have ta track him down. Track down all the labs, hunt down whoever knows about him, whoever is working with them... We have ta shut Shockwave down..."

"I hate to say this, but if Shockwave is as experienced at going undetected as you suspect he is, then it may already be too late," Prowl replied darkly. "He has had plenty of time to pack up his operations. He could be anywhere on the planet – any hole-in-the-ground, any gorge, anywhere in the poles. For all we know, he could have moved his labs off-planet. If he's beyond the atmosphere, then he's beyond our current reach."

Jazz cursed softly, thumping the edge of the desk with his closed fist. "We can't let him go on with what he's been doing. Ya saw what he did ta those bots."

"Yes, I did see," Prowl murmured softly, feeling sickness churn in the depths of his tanks as the memories arose. "Worse yet, I know that a member of my cadre was deeply involved in Shockwave's madness." He gazed at Jazz with sympathy rather than accusation. "What happened to Kingpin was his own fault. I do not blame you for killing him. I lay the blame squarely at Shockwave's feet, as well as the _Psi ex Machina_."

There was a glimmer in Jazz's expression as if relief had settled there.

Prowl shook his head, "I won't bother to avenge Kingpin – he doesn't deserve it. But for all the others that have suffered, are suffering, and will suffer at the hands of a mad mech and whatever ties to a cult he might have, it is those bots who I will dedicate my efforts to."

"You do that, and Ah'll just focus on finding Shockwave and ending him. Ah'll kill him when Ah get mah hands on him," Jazz vowed. "Just so ya know in advance, Ah'll kill him a thousand times over before Ah let him die the most vile death Ah can design. Ya won't stop meh, Prowl, so don't even try to throw some stupid Autobot reasoning at meh."

The vehemence of Jazz's words vibrated in Prowl's sparkcase. "No, I won't stop you."

"Good." A long, tired woosh of air rushed out of Jazz's vents. He sagged, looking as tired as Prowl felt. So many things he had to do, his list growing longer with each passing orn. Never had he carried on his shoulders so many missions of intense meaning. He had responsibilities to others now, and the weight of them was heavy.

A single dark hand reached across the width of the desktop, patting the silvered top of Jazz's head. A gentle, consoling gesture. "We have leads, Jazz, and we can follow up on them. If anything, we can put pressure on the Decepticons themselves. If we find out what Shockwave's connections are within the ranks, we can shut them down and force him out of hiding."

"Or it could end up doing the opposite, having Megatron hear about it and close ranks so tightly on Shockwave that we never see, hear, or smell a hint of him for all long as we live," Jazz countered darkly, shaking his head beneath Prowl's hand. "Who knows exactly how long Shockwave has been operating under the radar? We rattle him too much, we'll never see him again."

"Then we will be careful. We'll be quiet," Prowl assured. "We can use Special Ops and Intelligence & Espionage if need be."

Jazz snorted dispassionately.

"Mirage may not be our best option, but his bots are well trained. They know how to investigate discreetly; if we ask them to keep their optics open for suspicious activities while they are in the field, it will increase the probability of us finding something of worth."

"Delegation is not mah specialty."

"You are in luck, because it is mine." Prowl stared on soberly. "There are plenty of leads for us to begin with. We know that Shockwave has ties to the _Psi ex Machina_. We know that he is targeting Neutrals for experimentation, and that he is working out of isolated areas. We have that data pad you took from his labs; there might be something on it that can help us."

"Right, the data pad. Ah forgot about that," Jazz chuckled lowly, running a hand over his faceplate.

"It is an excellent lead," Prowl insisted. "We may not know what is on it at this very moment, but it may prove to be useful."

"Ah gotta get working on deciphering it, don't Ah?"

"I have every confidence in you," Prowl said. "You are the most capable bot I have ever known. If you put your mind to anything, you are clever and devious enough to come out far ahead of anyone else. As for myself, I am more aware now than I was several fortnights ago that I am better suited to desk work rather than be out in the field."

"Ya weren't _that_ bad," Jazz countered weakly.

"I was mortifyingly horrible," Prowl insisted. "In battle, I am fine. But trekking across the wilds of Cybertron while exposed to the worst climes imaginable for a robotic species? I freely admit that I was not designed for that sort of nonsense. I held you back."

"Ya kept meh anchored."

Prowl sucked in a deep drag of air, then released it when he calculated that arguing the point was pointless. "I did both," he said. "But my strengths lie here, where there are bots to control and massive databases at my disposal. I can best contribute to the research side of our mission, to finding any background on Shockwave, or finding a hint of the _Psi ex Machina_ that may lead us to him. At the very least, I can search the archives for answers to the things we saw out in the Pole."

The dancing corpses, the impossible techno-organic hybrids, the extreme unlikelihood of Xerxia...

Prowl pressed on determinedly. "I will do what I can to research everything else."

"Yeah," Jazz breathed noncommittally.

Prowl caught the distant lilt in that single breathed word, understanding what it meant. A mind too full of a thousand plots and schemes to be completely braced in the present. Eagerness tempered by physical and mental exhaustion.

"Jazz, right now there is little that we can do. We cannot follow every lead we have at once, especially not as we are now. A few more orns will not hurt our plans," he said, settling back in his seat. "Our best option is to rest and prepare ourselves."

A noise of discontent rattled from deep within the saboteur's chest. He made to rise from his seat, but stilled when a dark hand grasped his claws.

"You don't have to go," Prowl said. "You are obviously still tired."

"Exhausted," Jazz admitted.

"Stay here," Prowl invited. "I could do for the company, even if you simply recharge in the chair. Being in my office again reminds me of how lonely my function can be throughout the orn."

Jazz settled back in his seat with remarkable acquiesence. He glanced around the desk, noting the newly organized piles of data pads. "Ya need any help? Ah don't want ta be sitting here doing nothing."

Prowl pushed forward one of the piles. "You can deal with this one."

Jazz made to pick up the top pad, only to find that the rest of them followed with it. He shook the glued pile once, and then arched an optic ridge at Prowl.

"That," Prowl said, "is Sideswipe's pile. I discovered it was more of a two-armed job."

* * *

It was late evening by the time Blackhawk finally emerged from the lower levels of Iacon. He had been lurking there for most of the orn, intent on getting work done. It was only when he spirited himself away to someplace quiet and unknown that he was able to escape the usual plethora of distractions that bombarded him when in residence in his office. He often attributed his propensity for working in isolated secrecy to his youth spent as a pirate, though his habits proved to be immensely useful as commander of the Iacon Special Operations division.

Nightbeat, his second in command, was waiting for him at the doorway to the exact lift that Blackhawk rode – despite Blackhawk having told no one of his sojourn into the bowels of Iacon. Nightbeat had obviously not been waiting long, perking up and nearly smiling at his commander's approach.

Blackhawk nodded to his second. "I no longer feel the need to ask about how you knew I was coming up on that specific lift."

"Sometimes it is better not to know," Nightbeat replied with a shrug.

Having long ago accepted that Special Operations was the dumping ground for all of the strange and unusually talented bots of the Autobot forces, Blackhawk merely nodded in silence. He admitted to himself that he knew his second in command well enough, and really did not want to know Nightbeat's secrets. And, to be perfectly honest, Blackhawk knew the reverse was true. Despite him being the commander of one of the best trained and most capable collection of Autobots, he doubted many were eager to poke into his past to find out what made him tick. Not for lack of curiosity, but out of respect for Blackhawk's secrets and a personal wariness of what they might find.

Nightbeat cast a quick survey of his commander. He blinked slowly peering out through constantly cloudy optics – a consequence of his severe insomnia that he refused to have fixed. Approving of whatever he saw, the agent inclined his head. "I take it you had a productive orn?"

"I got more done than I expected," Blackhawk replied, gesturing that they should walk together. "It is quiet down there, not so many distractions. I find if I stay in my office all orn-"

"There is always someone to walk in on you?"

"Exactly."

Nightbeat looked off down the hall, a permanent mild frown etching his faceplate. "It's rarely us, you know."

"I know," Blackhawk assured, clapping a hand on his second's shoulder. "_My_ division is rarely any trouble at all. You are all too well trained. The rest of the Autobots on the other hand..."

Nightbeat laughed. While all Autobot divisions had their own personal rivalries with each other, each thinking themselves the best or most vital, Special Operations held it in clear conscience that they were unquestionably both.

"Now, tell me why you were waiting for me," Blackhawk said, steering down an empty corridor. It was late enough in the evening that most bots had settled down for the night, only a few unlucky warriors left assigned to patrolling halls and wasting away at monitor duty. "You rarely venture away from your own rooms unless it is something significant."

For a moment, the other Autobot contemplated what he would say. His mouthplates opened-

"-and don't tell me it was because you couldn't recharge," Blackhawk cut in pointedly, casting a sidelong stare to his second that was meant to encompass all that he thought of that excuse. "It's been two fortnights since you last recharged – the excuse is as old as dirt."

Nightbeat laughed again, but the sound was weaker this time. "It hasn't been that long, has it? I can't remember..." He shook his head with a grimace. "I almost fell into recharge the other night."

Blackhawk gave him a congratulatory clap on the shoulder. "Good for you! What stopped you from going all the way?"

"Too loud," Nightbeat sighed. "Every time I think I get a break in the noise, it just starts back up again. It's been really loud, lately. Senselessly loud." He pawed absently at the side of his head, causing a metallic clacking noise where his audio dial had come loose from him pawing at it so often.

Blackhawk made an appropriate noise without giving a definite answer. He knew for a fact that there was no noise around Nightbeat's quarters, mostly for the fact that Nightbeat had packed up his room several vorns ago and moved into an isolated storage room on the outskirts of base. No activities in the area, no reason for any bot to be out there, so no source noise that Blackhawk could account for. Whatever noise kept Nightbeat up for endless nights, Blackhawk suspected it was all in his head.

"Maybe soon the noise will die down?" Blackhawk offered consolingly.

"I have a feeling it will die down soon," Nightbeat agreed with no small amount of longing. His cloudy optics blinked slowly, the trek across the curve of his optics appearing to have taken as much effort as it would have taken Blackhawk to swim across the Mercurial Sea.

They walked for several more steps before Blackhawk figured it was an appropriate time to bring up his original question. "So, the lift, Nightbeat?"

"Right, right, the lift..." Nightbeat breathed quietly, again staring off into the distance. "There's a meeting going on. I figured you would have liked to have known about it."

"Oh?" Immediately, Blackhawk remotely accessed his inbox to see if he had missed anything important. There was nothing there of any significance. "I wasn't sent a memo."

"It's not one of those kinds of meetings," Nightbeat replied.

A moment of silence before the dawning realization. "Ah, one of _those_ meetings."

"Yes." Nightbeat revved lowly in his chest, his frown becoming a pinch more obvious. "Elita One called it. She's up to her usual schemes again."

Blackhawk inclined his head, grateful for the warning. It was one thing to be perfectly aware that Elita One was a powerful femme with powerful connections, but another thing entirely to know that she and her femmes were actively involving themselves in a new scheme entirely separate from their usual duties assisting the Autobot forces.

Being the commander of the Femme Division, and sparkmate to the Prime on top of that, there were few who wished to get in Elita One's way when she set her mind to something. As Special Ops commander, Blackhawk preferred to be in the know about the femmes' escapades rather than in the dark about them, if only to spare him the surprise later when it all came to a head.

Pinching the bridge of his olfactory sensor, Blackhawk tried desperately to ward off the headache he felt coming. "So Elita One has called a secret meeting. Any idea what this meeting is about?"

Nightbeat canted his head as one might when hearing a noise from far off in the distance. The sound of their clicking footsteps in the empty hall marked how long they went in silence. Blackhawk waited patiently.

"I suppose you haven't heard yet that Jazz and Prowl have returned?" Nightbeat wondered.

"I just heard right now," Blackhawk replied, barely missing a step. It surprised him not at all that they had returned, though it had concerned him that they had been away for so long. "Obviously the meeting will be about Jazz."

"What else could it be about? Elita has made it clear that she is set on having Jazz for the Autobots, if not for her own division," Nightbeat snorted, rolling his optics. "Isn't it a little redundant to be courting a sure thing? If they push any harder, they're going to scare him off."

"Elita One is merely playing with her prey now." Blackhawk shook his head with a bare smile. "Jazz is one of us. Perhaps a little rough around the edges, but all the more effective for it. Elita only wants to seal the deal by putting a red decal on him.

"Ridiculous," Nightbeat admonished. "Like putting a leash on a hurricane. I would much rather have him free to do his damages rather than harness him and risk losing what makes him so effective."

"I agree with you fully, but please don't tell anyone that," Blackhawk sighed. "The majority rules that Jazz must become an Autobot, so who are we to gainsay them? The one thing I know is that if the rest of them are pushing and we are not, it only makes our division look better."

Nightbeat chuckled lowly.

Blackhawk chuckled as well. "When did Prowl and Jazz get in?"

"Last night. It didn't get around base until this morning, and by that time, you were already down below. I didn't think the news was important enough to interrupt your work for it."

"And that is why I love having you as my second in command. You are fully capable of taking care of business without me, and you know exactly what sort of news I would like to hear and what I would not," Blackhawk said proudly.

"I cannot be your second forever," Nightbeat warned sadly.

Blackhawk knew it to be true, but did not press it. "Dare I ask how you found out about this meeting?"

"No."

"I didn't think so." The next thing Blackhawk intended to work on was not asking needless questions of his second. He imagined Nightbeat would appreciate it. "Lead on, then?"

"Of course." Nightbeat lead on at the same slow, contemplative gait he always loped along at. Being that they were nearly the same height, and had long vorns of sharing company together, Blackhawk was happy to match speed and comfortably ramble alongside. Familiar corridors passed them by, then the sharp bite of the setting evening outdoors as they crossed a courtyard into one of the larger main compounds. They weaved around to the back, where smooth hallways began to be dotted with familiar storage doors, before Blackhawk got an idea of exactly what direction they were heading.

They turned a corner and were forced to draw up short before they ran over the femme lurking there.

"Oh," Firestar chirped, blinking up at them. Her fingers were laced behind her back as she balanced her weight on her heels, swinging back and forth to give her a deceptively innocent appearance. She did not bother to hide her appraisal of them both, her optics trailing slowly down their frames and then back up again. "Are you supposed to be here?"

One of Blackhawk's optic ridges arched slightly. "Are _you_ supposed to be here?"

Firestar met his stare evenly. "Yes, I am."

"Well, I outrank you, as does Nightbeat, so I suppose both of us have more of a right to be here than you do."

The femme blinked again, pursed her mouthplates, then gave them both a definitive frown when she could not come up with an appropriate comeback. Since she could not turn them away, she said, "You're late."

"I know," Blackhawk assured.

"He was working, which is more than what anyone can say for you," Nightbeat said flatly.

Firestar offered an incendiary glare so potent that if Nightbeat were a lesser bot, he would have had his paint fried off. Not to be outdone, Nightbeat stared back without heat and without blinking. As a chronic insomniac, he had perfected the art of staring off into the distance without blinking for very long periods of time. Eventually, Firestar was unnerved enough to find other things to stare at – namely Blackhawk, who wasn't much of an improvement in the looks department.

"My apologies for being late," Blackhawk said with a quick bow of his head, though failing to convey any sense of apology at all. "Shall I slip in, or do I need to give you a password?"

Before Firestar even opened her mouthplates to say anything, be it snarky or not, Nightbeat piped in flatly. "Jazz."

Firestar didn't bother to hide her disgruntlement as she grumbled, "That's the password. Go in."

Blackhawk took a step toward the door to a storage room that was no longer a storage room. He glanced back at Nightbeat, only to find his second in command already several steps back up the corridor in the direction they came in.

Sensing his commander's regard, Nightbeat turned and canted his head. "I have work to do."

"Good luck, then," Blackhawk bid.

"You too," Nightbeat murmured, giving his back as he disappeared around the far corner.

Blackhawk stepped up to the correct door and let it hiss open before him. He squinted against the sudden dimness, waiting for his optics to adjust before he decided if he wanted to enter or not. Through the shifting darkness, several metallic shapes sharpened into focus. Their spark resonances read clearly on his scanner, announcing the presences of Elita One and her second; Ironhide somewhere in the room with Ratchet close at hand, and Blaster skittering about if the sound of small, quick feet across the floor was an indication. Wheeljack might have been in the room, though the spark resonance Blackhawk was reading was slightly distorted.

The moment the door had opened, all optics focused upon him. Their regard was sharp, assessing, able to be felt upon every dip and curve of Blackhawk's armour. He did not like to be under other bots' scrutiny, preferring that they were under his.

"Deciding whether or not to come in, Blackhawk?" Elita One wondered, immediately drawing Blackhawk's optic. He adjusted to the light and watched her come into focus, sitting at the very back of the room in a shadow cast by Ironhide's massive frame. A small cube of high-grade was perched in her fingers, the liquid languidly swilling around and around as she turned her wrist.

"I suppose I will be coming in," Blackhawk replied, lifting his feet to avoid Blaster walking past him.

Chromia scowled as he approached the table. "You've been missing all orn."

"I've been around," Blackhawk replied smoothly, taking an empty seat when no one offered him one.

"I take it you know who is back," Elita One said, raising an expectant optic ridge.

"My second recently informed me of their arrival," Blackhawk shrugged, peering around the transformed room, noting the changes since the last time he had visited. It was coming together nicely. The gas leak had finally been fixed, leaving the air clean and clear, with a distinct lack of hissing pipes in the background. The floor was swept; the tables and chairs that had been dragged in were of far better quality than the rickety messes used before. While the replaced lights had the potential for good, bright lighting, obviously someone had opted for the more mysterious option of dim lights and dark shadows.

A large slab of sheet metal was propped atop of two concrete barricades, forming a rudimentary bar where a collection of scattered cubes had collected. Behind the slab, against the wall, was a piled pyramid of high-grade cubes ranging in fantastical colours, and no doubt coming in a range of qualities, flavours, and strengths. No one offered a cube to Blackhawk, which was fine. He would have refused anyways.

Seated comfortably, Blackhawk surveyed the collected commanders. "Should I be worried that I wasn't invited to your private party?"

"Mirage wasn't invited, either," Elita One pointed out impishly.

"Mirage is an aft," Blackhawk pointed out.

"Indeed he is," Elita One agreed.

Blackhawk waited, flicking a glance at his fellow commanders for any hint on their faceplates. Ironhide might as well have been wearing a mask for all the emotive power his faceplate possessed. Ratchet's permanent frown was equally useless. Wheeljack's head was currently braced on the table, so whatever his expression might have been, Blackhawk was not privy to it. Blaster was lurking somewhere beneath the table. If Red Alert were present, he would have have been easily readable. Unfortunately, because of Red Alert's nervous disorder, it made it extremely difficult to have anything secret around him without a mild breakdown occurring, hence his lack of invitation to most off-the-books meetings.

Finally Elita One decided to put him at ease by reaching across the table and patting his hand. "Wherever you were today, your access to the mainframe must have been disrupted, because I did send along a private memo."

Blackhawk gave a cursory refresh of his inbox, discovering the delayed encrypted message.

Wheeljack, still faceplate-down, raised a hand. "My fault. Bad go with a magnetic field generator down in my labs. It blew a fuse, then blew up."

"I thought I felt a mild tremor through the floor," Blackhawk commented.

"It was a good explosion," Wheeljack grunted, his crystal fins flashing weakly. Only he could call an explosion a 'good one.' "I think I was unconscious for three joors."

"Five," Ratchet corrected.

"Oh... yeah, five." He then proceeded to correct his chronometer.

"Explaining the spark resonance," Blackhawk said with a shake of his head.

"It'll sort itself out in a few orns," Ratchet grumped. "You can't stand next to an exploding magnetic field without feeling the effects of it." Which did not make things better when he lifted a hand and smacked his friend with it.

Blackhawk smiled at the pair, amused by their oddly affectionate and yet violent relationship.

Elita One cleared her vents quietly, gaining attention. "Now that we're all here, shall we get to the spark of the matter?"

"I want no part of this," Ironhide grouched, crossing his massive arms across his chest. "I came because I knew she was up to something-" he jerked his head in his sparkmate's direction, to which Chromia narrowed her sharp optics on him. "But if you all are planning to wind Jazz up and set him loose on the rest of base, forget about it."

"Wind him up?" Elita parroted, hand to spark with the utmost innocence.

"Don't think I didn't hear from Crosshairs what you did to him to get him out of his room," Ironhide snorted. "What game do you think you're playing? Breaking into Jazz's room and stealing everything that glitch owns? That is just asking for trouble."

"One of the unfortunate things about being sparkbonded – one can never keep a secret," Chromia lamented. "What are you getting so high and mighty about anyways? Most of what we found in Jazz's room was stolen anyways."

Ironhide's optics flashed from underneath the deep overhang of his optic ridges. "I needed no such advantage as my bond to you to know exactly what you have been up to. Red Alert watched you and had his division on high alert for any fallout that might occur. My division was put on alert for backup."

"He went to you before confronting me?" Chromia exclaimed, outraged.

"For some reason, Red Alert thinks I am the lesser of two evils. I cannot imagine why," Ironhide drawled, barely reacting as his mate planted her fist firmly in the armour of his upper arm. He peeled her fist away and gave it an affectionate rub to his cheek, which nearly cost him his left optic when her claws shot out.

Blackhawk pressed his mouthplates together to resist the urge to laugh.

Setting his sparkmate away from himself, notably pushing her chair with his foot so as to be as far away from him as possible, Ironhide continued. "As for most of his possessions being stolen, it doesn't matter. They're his now. Are you femmes so disconnected from reality that you would risk the health and safety of the rest of base just for your manipulations?"

Elita One dismissed the weapons specilist's grumbles with a wave of her delicate hand. "Oh please, Ironhide, melodrama does not become you. All went well, as I knew it would. I think Jazz was rather pleased and flattered with our initiative to welcome him deeper into the Autobot ranks."

"Deeper into a trap of your own making, you mean," Ratchet snorted. "Can you imagine if he wasn't 'pleased and flattered' by your so called initiative? Ironhide is right, you took a foolish risk. You could have easily have asked him if he wanted to move into a new room."

"We would have taken care of it if Jazz hadn't liked our surprise," Chromia said with finality.

Elita One raised a shoulder. "Besides, if we had asked, it simply would not have had the same meaning. This is a room he has earned, rather than one he asked for. He's more likely to keep it if he sees it as a prize."

Blaster, who had scrambled up onto the table and sat amongst their towering frames, shrugged his skinny red shoulders. "I'm seeing what you two were going for, but I'm still leaning with the big bots on this one. I saw Jazz and Prowl when they first came into Iacon airspace; they were cagey. Whatever happened out on their mission might have fixed their squabble, but it seriously put them on edge."

"I did sense that about him when I spoke with him this morning," Elita One agreed.

"Both he and Prowl were acting a bit odd when I saw to them last night," Ratchet intoned.

"Exactly," Blaster pressed. "What if Jazz snapped? Then we would have had either a whole division of dead femmes or one dead minibot. Or both. Probably both. Wouldn't that be just wonderful?"

Chromia looked thoroughly offended by the implication.

Blackhawk leaned back in his seat for comfort, prepared to sit out the meeting in silence. He usually did not contribute, especially when there was nothing important to add. Mostly, he chose to attend because they kept him up to date on the nonsense his fellow commanders found necessary for their daily lives, and because it was just like a comedy routine that never stopped being funny.

"I say you should just leave him the pit alone," Ratchet said. "Jazz is coming around on his own, without you prodding him along at a speed that might just make him dig his heels in."

"I second that," Blaster solemnly agreed.

Wheeljack, still faceplate-down, grunted his agreement.

Ironhide was in the process of raising his arm in solidarity, but was forced to redirect the motion when Chromia's chair screeched a bare inch closer to him – within hitting distance.

"I am not doing this just for my own entertainment," Elita One admonished. "Certainly you know me better than that."

The blank looks she recieved clearly asked _Did they really?_

She valiantly ignored their stares, pressing on in an imperious tone that cast no doubt that she was the Prime's sparkmate. "I know perfectly well that Jazz will eventually become an Autobot. It has been a forgone conclusion ever since Prowl managed to bring him to base."

"Then why start pushing now?" Ratchet pressed, annoyance lacing his tone. "You have managed well enough for two vorns, leaving Prowl to manage Jazz. It has worked to our advantage. Jazz is close to coming over to our side."

"Is he?" Ironhide wondered skeptically.

Ratchet sighed, shrugging. "According to Prowl, it may take some time yet for Jazz to come to his own conclusions, but Prowl is cautious by nature. He would never give a definite answer if he did not have the solid proof to back it up."

"I just prefer not to poke at an unstable time bomb," Ironhide scoffed.

"And what is your professional opinion, Ratchet?" Elita One asked.

"I saw Jazz last night with my own optics and he was a changed bot from the night he left here six fortnights ago," Ratchet admitted. "He's a changed bot from the animal that prowled in here two vorns ago. Give it time and sooner rather than later he'll be asking the Prime to take his oaths." He narrowed a jaundiced optic on the femme commander. "He's still volatile though, and if you push him he might just push back."

Chromia landed a challenging glare on Blackhawk, which he felt the heat of prickling up and down his armour. "What are your thoughts on the subject, Blackhawk?" she demanded. "Besides Prowl, you are the only one who has worked closely with Jazz. Surely you have some ideas you might like to share?"

He raised his hands as if to ward off that piercing glare. "No thoughts at all, except for those like Ratchet's. Leave him as he is. Jazz has survived this long by his wits alone, so who are we to stick a leash on him?"

Chromia's mouthplates curled in a sneer. "You are only so confident because Jazz works so closely with your division. You think he is practically a part of Special Ops already, even without a decal."

"Yes, I do have that personal advantage, don't I? Perhaps it is because I do not push him to be anything other than himself?" Blackhawk replied evenly. "I appreciate Jazz for his abilities and I accept that he is not like any of us; I do not expect him to be anything else other than what he wants to be." He paused, inclining his head boldly to Chromia. "If only your femmes did not shadow him every orn and night, he might feel more inclined to grace you with his presence."

Before she could come across the table at him, in a fight Blackhawk was not confident he would win, Elita One put a restraining hand on her second that successfully anchored her to her seat.

"Play nicely," the femme commander ordered.

Because this could go on all night, and Blackhawk was honestly looking forward to some decent recharge, he cut straight to the chase. "If you would simply tell us the meaning behind your sudden spike of interest in the bot, perhaps we would be more inclined to understand your view? Obviously we are all of a consensus here that Jazz will be an Autobot _when_ he wants to be one. In the meantime, the timetable seems inconsequential."

Elita One was all seriousness when she said, "Because Jazz needs our protection."

An odd silence briefly filled the room, one which generally came when all present were wondering if they had all correctly heard the same bizarre statement.

Blaster cleared his vents, a cautious and skeptical optic on Elita. "Are we talking about the same insanely volatile sociopath who could probably disassemble us and sell our parts on the black market without blinking once?" He gestured pointedly. "You know, _that_ Jazz."

"Yes, the very same," Elita One confirmed.

"Right, just checking," the communications commander sighed.

"Have you lost your mind?" Ratchet snorted.

"No, I have not," Elita said with a sharpness in her tone that said she was not impressed that everyone else failed to see what she thought was so obvious.

Ratchet slapped his hand on the table. "The only protection Jazz needs is from himself, and Prowl has been doing a fine job of that."

"But Prowl cannot always be there to protect Jazz, now can he?" Elita One shot back. "Prowl has his own life, his own duties, and while he might be able to divide himself for some time, he cannot go on indefinitely."

"So you worry for Prowl, not Jazz," Ironhide observed.

"I worry for both of them," Elita One said. "Prowl is not infallible, and Jazz is not invincible. They are involved in something dangerous."

"Aren't we all?" Ironhide countered. "This is war, Elita. There is rarely any guarantee for safety for any of us."

"I know that, but there is more than a war being fought out there," Elita replied solemnly. "Jazz is involved in whatever that 'more' happens to be. Though I cannot confirm it, I suspect it has something to do with Shockwave."

At the mentioning of that particular designation, the other commanders stirred around the table. Blackhawk sat up straighter and gave his full attention to the femme.

Elita One settle back with a somber expression. "So I see that all of you remember that debriefing that Jazz gave us not too long ago. It just so happens that Moonracer spoke of similar happenings during her stay here – disappearances, kidnappings. Shockwave's apparent _modus operandi_."

"Do you see where this is leading?" Chromia asked. "We have literally _nothing_ on this bot, which makes him all the more dangerous to whoever is stupid enough to go poking around his lairs."

"Which Jazz is doing with aplomb," Ratchet said with dawning unease.

"And dragging Prowl around for the ride," Elita concluded darkly. "We are all perfectly aware of Jazz's strengths, and we are equally aware that he does have weaknesses. Shockwave has become his own personal pet mission, which has set him on a dangerous path that leaves him vulnerable."

Wheekjack dragged his head up and propped his chin in his palm. "He's going to throw himself out there, into the wilds, alone, and have nobody to help him. He doesn't ask for help."

"Exactly," Elita One said. "I realize that pushing Jazz may not be the best of options, but if he were to become an Autobot, then at least I could rest assured that he would have the backup of the Autobots whether he liked it or not." She set aside her cube, barely touched as it was. "To many of us at Iacon, he is already one of us. If he were in trouble, we would go to him. But what if he is beyond our reach? No other base would recognize Jazz, nor run the risk of going to his aid."

Blackhawk tapped his fingers on the tabletop. "I understand what you are saying, Elita. More often than not, Jazz is left to his own devices. Prowl cannot always be there to keep him in line. Jazz never wished to share the information about Shockwave with us in the first place, and I doubt he will be willing to do that now or in the future."

"It will be his private war, if he has anything to say about it. If he is to take Shockwave on, Jazz will need every advantage possible," Elita One pressed. "_We_ are his best advantage. He need not know that we are working behind the scenes to help him."

"You are a devious creature," Blaster chuckled.

"So what do you suggest we do?" Ratchet asked warily, shifting in his seat.

"Simply make it obvious that his best option is to become one of us," Elita One said. "Push the subject if you must. Do what you feel is necessary. Just keep in mind that this is all to keep him safe."

Ironhide rubbed the bridge between his optic ridges. "If this is the plan, Optimus can't hear about it."

"What shouldn't I hear about?" Without warning, the lights above flicked to full brightness. The gathered commanders recoiled from the sudden assault on their optics, throwing chairs to the ground in their haste, blinking myopically at the tall figure of the Prime now standing in the doorway.

Elita One recovered with stunning swiftness, her smile bright and welcoming as if she had been expecting him all this time. "Optimus, how delightful to see you! What are you doing down here?"

"I knew you were up to something. You can't simply hide something like that from me." Optimus Prime's expression was more exasperated than charmed. "Another secret meeting, dearspark?"

"Well," she sighed, coming to his side and taking up his arm. "I wouldn't call it _secret_, per se. More like a gathering of select invitation."

Ironhide snorted, and this time Chromia did manage to hit him.

"On my own base, Elita?" Optimus lamented. "At least here, you could pretend I have some power."

"Oh Optimus, you know I have every respect for your position. You are Prime, but I am your sparkmate and the commander of the Femme Division. I have duties to the Autobots as well, and some you shall not be privy to." And then she flicked him. "And do not go digging through our bond for the answers."

Optimus respectfully relented.

With impressive skill, Elita One managed to turn her sparkmate to the hall and guide him out without him casting an optic onto the rest of the commanders. She left the rest of them to find their own way out, confident they would not cause a scene. She could keep the Prime busy for the rest of the night so he did not coming questioning them in the middle of the night.

Steadily but slowly, the rest of the gathering dispersed.

Blackhawk was the last to exit, wondering what had become of Firestar. He assumed she had been on watch to prevent a thing like this from happening. At the very least, she could have given a shout to let them know the Prime was approaching. He caught sight of her at the far end of the hall, looking duly apologetic for failing in her duty. As soon as Blackhawk saw who stood over her, he understood her failing.

Mirage held one of her wrists shackled, the expression on his faceplate etched in its typical repose of distain. No doubt he had been the one to alert the Prime.

"Aft," Blackhawk muttered.


	45. Chapter 45

Well, I was going to wait... but then someone reminded me it was my birthday. Actually, 'reminded' is a little soft. My aunt happened to stick her head out a window and scream it down the street as I was driving away. It got the point across. I happened to accidentally forget that it was my birthday...because I am awesome like that. Because it happens to be this most fantastic time of year, I shall post this chapter that I had intended to keep for another week or two.

Also, we are approaching 2000 reviews. Anybody else starting to freak out?

Thank you so much to the readers who stuck with my story for the months that I was unable to write. I was deeply inspired and grateful to see some familiar names in the ranks, and also delighted to see a few new ones. As always, your enthusiasm and love for the story keep me going, so my deepest and sincerest thanks to **yamiishot, ABundleOfDaydreams, Nikkie2010, Gamemice, 16DarkMidnight80, VyxenSkye, Chistarpax, Optimus Bob, mamabot, RagdolDark, renegadewriter8, Deathcomes4u, Autobot Chromia, ennui deMorte, AirJuvy, CNightJoy, Queen of the Red Skittle, femme4jack, guest, Camfield, guest, EmperialGem21, SweetIndigo, guest,** and **luinrina**~

**Chapter 45**

Prowl stood back and, with a critical optic, surveyed his second in command.

"Prowl..." Smokescreen intoned warningly.

"Quiet," Prowl ordered.

Though not a vain bot, Prowl knew the value of appearance. Even for a species that was not visually-oriented, appearance did have its own social importance - _especially_ in making first impressions. There were dozens of correct social mores concerning a bot's appearance during first meetings, particularly in situations where strict social hierarchy played a deciding role. Prowl was, of course, intimately acquainted with every possible recommendation for appearance – recommendations for all twelve Cybertronian territories and both moons. He had it down to a science.

Smokescreen, unfortunately, was more vain than he was concerned with social dictations of proper appearance. He wore more polish than necessary, especially for a tactician. It made him too shiny, too noticeable. His armour was flared out on its moorings, a gesture some might take as arrogance. But it was his left audio dial that was slowly driving Prowl to distraction. It was several degrees off-centre, and all Prowl wanted to do was grab his second in command in a headlock and yank the offending dial back into place.

"I just washed this morning," Smokescreen reminded uselessly.

"I know," Prowl said, continuing his silent assessment.

"Stop looking for something wrong with me," Smokescreen pressed, smoothing his hands down his armour when Prowl's critical stare continued. "I'm good, okay? I got all polished up for the trip. I haven't looked this good in a long time." Mostly because stress and time-limitations on base had made it impossible for anyone to really focus on hygiene.

Prowl sighed and shook his head. "I want you to look presentable when you arrive in Centaurie Tetrax. Hold still." With his newly attached arm, he reached up and tweaked Smokescreen's audio dial until it sat at a proper degree to mirror its partner on the other side. "There. That's _much_ better. It would reflect poorly on me and this base if you arrived looking like a vagabond."

"A vagabond?" Smokescreen exclaimed, insult lacing his tone. "Have you even bothered to see how the scouts show up on base? They're covered in mud, dried energon, and worse. If my audio dial is off-centre by a couple of degrees, no one is going to care."

"I beg to differ," Prowl said, reaching out again.

Smokescreen ducked away from more adjustments. "I _liked_ the angle my dial was at. It made me look roguish."

"It made you look asymmetrical, and you know how I dislike that," Prowl chastised. "And as for the scouts, they are not my problem. They may show up at any base they wish, looking however they like, and Mirage can be the one to give a damn. You are one of my tacticians and I will not have you reflect badly on my command."

Smokescreen once again tried to shoo his commander away, who was currently acting less like a commander and more like a brother with a terrible – if not terminal – case of _perfectionism_. "I never see you like this with the others."

Prowl settled back with his arms crossed. "The others know how to comport themselves properly in my presence. You, on the other hand, insist on being given leeway."

"Okay, fine, you got me there," Smokescreen lamented. "I don't fall into your clearly deranged need for everything to be psychotically clean, ordered, and symmetrical. But I challenge you to name one thing about my appearance that someone _normal_ in Centaurie Tentrax will notice." Smokescreen spread his arms wide, looked down at himself, then back at his brother with a raised optic ridge.

The line of Prowl's mouthplates thinned in displeasure, optics narrowing until they were only two glacial slits.

Smokescreen held his ground, chin raised, hoping this was not the rusted bolt that finally snapped Prowl's patience.

A long moment of tense silence followed, the two tacticians staring each other down like they were staring down the barrels of charged plasma cannons. Eventually, Prowl decided that the staring contest was useless. He looked away with a terrible sigh of resignation.

"You are... passable," he said, but the effort it took to say those words clearly pained him.

"Gee, thanks, Prowl. Your support is overwhelming."

"Don't get used to it."

Behind them, the pilot of the prepped ship gave a shout of readiness.

Smokescreen turned with a raised hand. "I'll be there in an astrosecond!" Turning back to Prowl, he opened his arms expectantly. "A hug for good luck?"

With a flat look, Prowl reached out for Smokescreen's right hand and shook it once before dropping it.

Smokescreen rolled his optics. "Any advice before I go?"

"I have enough advice for you to fill several data pads, but I will give you the condensed version," Prowl said. "You are on a temporary reassignment to Centaurie Tetrax. This is not a vacation; be sure to pull your weight while working over there. _Don't_ get any bright ideas about permanently transferring. I will refuse to sign any permanent transfer notice that finds its way onto my desk."

"Got it. Anything else?"

"Hunter," Prowl sighed, his spark turning over in his sparkcase. "It may be difficult when you see him. He doesn't have a frame yet, so his spark and processor will be on separate life support machines. He won't know you are there, but you can be there for him regardless. As soon as he has a frame of his own and is stable enough, you will be transferred back here."

Smokescreen nodded, already familiar with the plan. "Was there anything you wanted me to say to Hunter when he does come online properly? Words of brotherly love, or is that too much to ask for?"

It was too much to ask for, if Prowl's unamused expression was anything to judge by. "If you think of it, suggest to him that he should consider transferring to Iacon." It was the closest Prowl would come to proclamations of brotherly love... at least for now.

"He won't," Smokescreen said with a shake of his head, and then turned over his shoulder to shout at the insistent pilot. "Give me an astrosecond, will ya? Can't you see I'm having a spark-to-spark with my emotionally stunted commander who refuses to publically acknowledge me as a member of his own cadre? These things take time!"

The pilot was unimpressed, and shouted back his thoughts on the matter.

Prowl ignored the exchange, as well as the ensuing laughter from the Autobots present milling around the hangar. Focusing on said member of his cadre, he asked "Why not? Iacon would be an excellent advancement for him."

"He's in Intelligence & Espionage now, Prowl. Not tactical like us," Smokescreen pressed.

"Your point being?"

"I got one word for you: _Mirage._"

Prowl paused, then inclined his head. "Yes, I can see how that would be a deterrent to transferring to Iacon." He coughed into his fist. "At least tell him not to hesitate to call on us if one of his assignments takes him near here."

Smokescreen landed a hardy clap on his brother's shoulder. "Prowl, take your own advice. Don't hesitate to call while I'm there. You could talk to Hunter, even if he's nothing but a little glowing ball of lightning. It's the thought that counts." He let go, taking several steps back. "Behave yourself," Smokescreen joked, but then flicked his gaze to the silver figure lurking in the background. "Take care of him."

"Ah will," Jazz assured.

With a grin, Smokescreen turned on his heel and hurried up the ramp – ducking when the pilot aimed a whack to his head. Once beyond sight, the ramp snapped up and the hatch hissed closed. Lights around the docking bay flashed in warning. The Hangar Master shouted to some nearby drones, causing them to scatter away from their last preps.

Prowl stood back a safe distance, watching the undocking procedures. His optics swept the area, taking in every detail, and his battle computer ramped up to calculate every possibility for Smokescreen's journey. The chosen ship that would take Smokescreen to Centaurie Tetrax was less opinionated than Putter-Poof. A quiet, obedient ship capable of several times the speed of the lacking ICOM-7. In the best case scenario, the ICOM-10 would deliver Smokescreen quickly and without incident to their intended destination.

Before he could begin to consider the multitude of worst case scenarios that were vying for attention in his mind, a silver hand clapped down on his newly reconstructed shoulder.

"Ah, brotherly love," Jazz teased.

Prowl shot him an annoyed glance, ducking out from beneath the hand. "I would not go so far as love."

"Affection?" Jazz offered, grinning in good humour.

"Not quite," Prowl dismissed

"Acknowledgement?" Jazz said, then waved a hand. "No, wait, Ah got it. Brotherly annoyance."

"Close enough," Prowl sighed.

"Seems like the best fit," Jazz said, glancing about himself at the activity that continued unhindered around them. "Never had no siblings ta ever know the feeling. Don't think it's worth it, really. Just seems like a lot of nothing ta meh."

"Family is-." Prowl stopped himself before he said 'overrated', deciding that the usage of that term would be inaccurate. Worse, an outright lie. He decided instead on, "Interesting." A much safer term that did not betray any of his inner thoughts on the matter.

"Yeah?" A vague smile played at the corner of the saboteur's mouthplates. Mischief sparked in his diamond visor, playing across his handsome features. He could read between the lines more easily than anyone, and could read Prowl best of all.

"Personally, I am just becoming reacquainted with the idea, so do not consider me an expert on the matter," Prowl warned needlessly, hoping Jazz did not persue the subject in such a public setting. "When I was in Simfur, I was never particularly fond of referring to any of my cadre as family. I learned to harbour affection for most of them, but even that seems distant to what I seem to be developing now."

Jazz leaned in. "That's the EMO in ya, remember? Even if ya started feeling the same things ya felt when ya were young, it would be a thousand times more powerful this time around."

Prowl grimaced at the reminder.

Always able to see more than he was meant to, Jazz saw Prowl's expression and gave him a nudge. "Come on, let's get out of here. Ah got a surprise for ya down in the holodeck. Something ta taka our mind off of things."

Prowl watched his partner start off with his usual loping grace. The invitation felt strange, the delivery way too sudden and vague. When the saboteur paused to look back, Prowl frowned at him. "I have work to do."

"Ya have the orn off," Jazz replied airily, as if Prowl had forgotten.

"When did that happen?" Prowl wondered pointedly. "Also, _how_ did that happen without my express knowledge of it happening?"

"This morning," Jazz replied, "and it happened because Ah arranged it ta happen. Now come on, let's go. Ah could only schedule so much time down there. A team from armouries are in after us and they aren't likely to wait patiently if we accidentally go over our time."

Intrigue and suspicion tickled through Prowl's mind, distracting his battle computer from its previous calculations so that it could focus on this new mystery. "Why did you schedule us down in the holodeck?" He stepped closer, close enough to be able to see the fine detail of Jazz's faceplate – the way the handsome slates of metal fit together, the way they twitched and shifted with every subtle movement. But, as ever, Jazz was a master of hiding what he didn't want seen.

"Ah'll show ya when we get there," he said, jerking his head toward the door. From behind his visor, his optics roamed warily across the hangar, scouting the shadows. He backed closer towards the door. Prowl failed to follow, watching the saboteur's every move in fascination.

"Fine, be that way. Go work if ya want. Ya know where ta find meh if ya smarten up."

Not about to let Jazz off so easily, Prowl was immediately on his heels. "Not so fast. Now you have my attention. Take me to the holodeck and let me decide for myself if I want to stay."

It was not even an astrosecond after the words were out of his mouthlates that Prowl realized he had fallen into a baited trap. A trap that, in hindsight, was ridiculously obvious.

"Idiot," Jazz laughed, before grabbing Prowl by a wing and yanking him out of the hangar. It was not the most dignified exit any commander had ever made, but unfortunately escape was nil. A couple dozen witnesses in the hangar looked up in time to have a good laugh at Prowl's expense, watching as a hunched storm-grey figure was bundled out by a laughing streak of silver. All of Iacon would soon know.

"Wait!" Prowl ordered, digging in his heels. He found no purchase in the smooth metal floor. "Let go of my doorwing!"

Jazz did not heed either order, not to wait nor to release his prisoner. He was at the advantage, able to bend his prize to his demands by a mere twisting of the wing he held captive. Prowl was forced to clamp his mouthplates shut, girding himself against the flashes of hot and cold that rushed through his neural circuits. Jazz was too clever, too quick and nimble with his fingers, to cause lasting damage; he only bent and twisted so much to keep Prowl moving, not to hurt him. What Prowl girded against the most was the way Jazz's manipulations, annoying as they were, were the opposite of painful. In any other setting, the touch might have been erotic.

Prowl decided that enjoying the saboteur's touch was probably the _worst_ of any evil. He blocked out the sensations as best he could. "Let me go this instant! You are causing a scene!"

"Too late," Jazz teased, whipping Prowl into a lift and pinning him to the far wall.

While Jazz easily dismissed the gaping bots in the hall as the automatic door hissed shut, Prowl felt their astonished stares like damning spotlights. Thankfully, the lift he and Jazz landed in was empty. A small blessing, or it would have been unbearable for others to witness the personal humiliation of the Head Tactical Adviser. The moment the door slid shut, Prowl twisted and incited a scuffle. It wasn't a full blown fight. Neither invested much, unwilling to scrap it out in an enclosed space. They devolved into slaps and flailing arms, ducking and twisting – one attempting to get away, while the other fought to keep his tenuous hold.

It was, perhaps, the most immature activity Prowl had ever participated in. It might have been Jazz's as well, if his dazedly bemused expression was anything to go by. Their scuffle came to a draw when Prowl managed to get his hands on Jazz's horns, threatening to twist them from the saboteur's head; Jazz grabbed hold of Prowl's chevron, threatening a similar fate.

When the lift dinged to a halt and doors to the proper floor slid open, a member of security was standing there. Two sets of laser-sharp optics landed on him, each from a slightly awkward angle... given that the possessors of the optics were tangled on the floor together. Clearly not knowing what to do, the security officer kept his gaze averted and asked if there was anything he could do. Red Alert had sent him, ever watchful of the cameras on base, and had been under the impression that Prowl was being kidnapped.

Prowl and Jazz finally managed to release each other, dismiss the security officer, and made their way to the holodecks in as dignified a manner as possible. They arrived at the deck Jazz had scheduled, slipped inside, and Jazz locked the door behind them.

Nearly violent in his need to correct everything on his frame that had been set askew, Prowl took hold of parts of his armour and jerked them back into place. As he occupied himself with that, he landed a flat glare on his partner. "Do you mind telling me what that was about?"

"Fun?" Jazz offered, seemingly surprised at himself to have considered that option.

"Do you even do fun?" Prowl asked.

"_Do you?_" Jazz countered.

"Touché." Now given the chance to stand freely on his own without the threat of his wings being grabbed, Prowl stretched to his full height. It was with deep satisfaction that he felt his spinal column snap back into place. He flexed his wings, sighing in relief with the movement. Neural circuits were still warm and vibrating from the touch of clever fingers plucking at them. Prowl's new arm, when he moved it, was not such a comfort, causing him to grunt as he rotated the new appendage in its newly reconstructed socket.

Jazz leaned back against the wall next to the door. "Arm still bothering ya?"

"It's stiff, that's all," Prowl admitted. "It will be for a few orns more before it is fully integrated with the rest of my frame." Nevertheless, Ratchet had done a fantastic job with the reconstruction and reattachment surgeries. New limb stiffness was to be expected, a simple matter of working the mechanical kinks out while waiting for his spark to accept the new limb and integrate it as part of his living tissue.

"Once the scarring fades and ya get some paint on it, no one will be able ta tell it's a new limb," Jazz said.

"Until then, I will simply have to deal with my appearance." Prowl glanced down at the matte grey of his new arm, bare metal exposed for the whole world to see. One large, blazing imperfection for him to see every time he looked at his reflection, and for him to think about every other moment of the orn.

Jazz looked away and haltingly said, "It's not that bad..."

"Don't lie to me."

"Okay, it _is _that bad." In mock-helpfulness, the saboteur offered his services: "If you're feeling bad about it, Ah could pluck your optics out so ya don't have ta see how ugly ya are."

Prowl's answering look said everything that words couldn't.

Jazz grinned with devilish delight, his deep laughter ringing through the cavernous space of the empty holodeck. When he could finally contain his mirth, he asked, "How's the interface hub?"

Prowl's expression failed to change when he answered. "I am under Ratchet's express orders not to strain my interfacial capabilities until everything is fully integrated. I could blow the whole thing out and need it replaced again if I try to do something stupid."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, that is so," Prowl replied, optics narrowing on his silvered company. "And, before you ask, _no_, you cannot interface with me. Not even when I get a full bill of health from Ratchet."

"Who? _Meh?_ It never crossed mah mind!" Jazz exclaimed with innocence that no one would ever believe.

"Business only, Jazz," Prowl pressed warningly.

"Business before pleasure makes Prowl a dull bot," the saboteur admonished, wagging his new finger. He was in rare form, polished to shine and claws sharpened to fine points. "Damn lucky ya got meh around. At least Ah still got mah skills or we'd be outta luck in here."

That being said, Prowl stood back to watch as Jazz's interface panel popped open and the black cable unfurled. Without a second thought, he hooked himself up to the console of the holodeck and downloaded a new program. The lines of his faceplate tightened with concentration, hinting that it was a large program he was dealing with, a complicated one that needed careful handling to keep data streams from tangling.

An unbidden flash of anticipation lanced through Prowl. Was he about to see another hint of his partner's past? What sort of scene was Jazz about to share with him? Would it be a painful memory, like all the ones that featured Xerxia? Or would it, for once, be a memory without pain? Prowl was not even sure Jazz possessed any memories like that. It felt like eons since the two of them had last been in a holodeck together. Granted, the last time they had been anywhere near a position like this, Jazz had been in Prowl's head and exposing an intimate moment of Prowl's past he had not been ready to face...

Above them, the emitters whirred to life. Images began to take shape, solidifying, sharpening. Details came into focus, the depth of the scene slowly expanding. Prowl focused on his surroundings exclusively, trying for a hint of what was taking shape.

His optics shot upwards as the ceiling above disappeared behind a sudden wash of black velvet, its depth suddenly soaring back in an optical illusion of dizzying heights. Prowl staggered back, snapping his mouthplates shut when he realized he was gaping. One by one, pinpricks of light appeared in the dark canvas. More appeared, by the dozens, washing across the sky in a tide. Soon, the sky was more stars than space. A star-encrusted sky so full and bright that it shone nearly as bright as sunlight.

"Jazz..." Prowl breathed, transfixed to the unfolding sight.

"Just wait," the saboteur murmured. "It gets better."

Hundreds upon thousands upon millions of stars. Billions of stars came to life. The blackness of space was squeezed between the glittering diamond-bright lights until it was only a black thread weaving between constellations. Through the centre of the sky, a densely packed arch of stars stretched impossibly high, seeming to reach up into the endless abyss forever, like a distant bridge between worlds. With no small amount of awe, Prowl recognized the arch as the whirling outstretched arm of a star-rich galaxy. Light and colour so densely packed together that it was nearly impossible to tell one star from another. A giant sparkling banner that stretched from one dark, twinkling horizon to the other. The light from legion of stars was so bright that the blackness of space was nearly indigo blue; the stars themselves came in a rainbow of magnificence. Reds, blues, yellows, purples. The most stunning of all were the piercing white ones, so austere and powerful, beaming light so sharp and bright that it was nearly cutting.

Even to look away from the great arch of stars, there were whirling galaxies in their full forms hanging heavy and bright in the sky. Spiral galaxies, pinwheels spinning through space. The giant eyes of distant gods watching from afar. Bright bursts of colour and activity. Nebulous clouds of gas painted the night sky in a wash of stunning colours, reflecting in rainbows under the spotlights of burning bright stars. Nebulae of nameless beauty, stretching in every direction, forming every possible shape. They were larger than any single mind could ever comprehend, distant but beautiful. A sky full of impossible wonder, not a single space wasted with the dark.

Prowl had never seen such a densely packed sky. Stunned, speechless, he felt dizzy to stare up at the sky and not know what to focus on first. Even his battle computer, notorious for being the hardest part of himself to impress, stuttered to a sudden halt when it failed to comprehend the true number of stars, the size of the galaxy, the immense stretch of the universe to contain all of this within. He was frozen to the spot. Left gaping, silent, in awe.

"Well?" Jazz asked from what felt like a great distance.

"I..." Prowl did not even realize he failed to answer, feeling as if the words had been sucked from him and lost out in the crowded light-bright sky.

No sight on Cybertron had ever been so stunning. Prowl's sheltered life in the capitol of Simfur became painfully sharp, to have never seen a night sky full of stars. He had lived a stunted life in lacking, to have never even _wanted_ to look up at the sky and see something like this. But even if he had wanted, there would have been nothing to see. Cybertron's majority had once been too light-polluted to have even caught a single star amongst the artificial glare. Now that all the lights of the planet had gone out, there still was no sight as breath-taking as this.

So distracted was he by the awe-inspiring image, Prowl failed to notice that he no longer stood alone.

"Ah can't remember the name of this place," Jazz murmured quietly.

Prowl jumped, turning to his company. "It is real?"

"A long time ago, it would have been."

Forcing his optics away from the sky, Prowl noted the strange settings that had taken shape much closer to him. The ground appeared as if it were uneven but solid, not metallic but hard. It was black and shiny under the starlight, reflecting the sky as a giant obsidian mirror. The sound of gentle lapping guided Prowl to a massive natural basin nearby, filled to the brim with a dark liquid substance that ebbed and flowed peacefully. Shining metal shapes gleamed under the starlight, twisting statues of various fantastical shapes and designs. Crystal accents also bejewelled the land, adding their natural geometric perfection to the already fantastical scene. Directly beneath Prowl's feet, a large mosaic of coloured tiles had been formed. It was a large, flat stage of a near-perfect circular shape, leading out to two tiled pathways, each that stretched out to opposite sides of the lake where they met again on the other side.

"Sometimes, when Ah try ta remember things, Ah think of this place," Jazz continued, staring up at the holographic sky.

"Do you know where it is?" Prowl wondered. He was no astronomer, but not even a cursory glance of the stars made any of the formations recognizable.

"No," Jazz sighed. "It looks like its a colony of sorts, probably a resort colony for rich bots."

Intrigued, Prowl studied Jazz from the corner of his optic. "What would you have been doing on an off-planet resort colony for rich bots?"

"Ah don't know. Probably nothing good." Jazz continued to stare into the night sky as if it held the answers for him. It held only ghosts, reflections of his imperfect memories, smudges of time without context, beautiful but empty without meaning. Evidence of the hollowness inside Jazz.

Prowl felt a pang of regret in his spark, of pity for his partner who was just beginning to wonder who he was. "I cannot imagine what it must be like in your mind with so many memories and so few answers for them."

"Imagining it doesn't change anything." The words were quiet, subtle longing hanging from them. "Ah just know that Ah was here once, a long time ago. Ah looked up at the sky and Ah saw something that Ah had never seen before. It made enough of an impression that it stayed with meh."

Prowl bumped his hand against Jazz's, letting his fingers wrap around the warm palm, fingers twining. "Thank you for sharing this with me."

Jazz's visored gaze dropped from the sky, shining on Prowl with a vague smile. "Ah thought this would be a good place for the two of us ta escape for a little while."

"Two of us?" Prowl wondered, tugging gently on the hand he held. "What do you need escaping from?"

Jazz grimaced, clearing his vents. He pulled his hand away, needing space, though he did not shoo Prowl away when the tactician followed.

"Well?" Prowl pressed lightly.

"Everyone. No, not everyone..." He revved deeply, causing his armour to vibrate with the sound. "Just the commanders. Yeah, the commanders... some of them, at least," Jazz sneered. "Ah haven't figured out who's all in on it."

"Commanders?" Prowl repeated, his brow furrowing. "Like myself?"

"Obviously," Jazz snorted. "Elita One is definitely in on it, but the others... Ah can't get a fix on it, but it's been driving meh insane."

"I haven't noticed any unusual behaviour," Prowl said, strolling to the edge of the mosaic dais. Beneath his feet, he listened to the click and shift of each individual tile. Under the silver-white light of the stars, the formed image of the mosaic was both entrancing and foreign. Perfect circles inlaid in each other, over and over, accented by crescents, dots, and straight lines. It was not random, but hauntingly meaningful. Glassy inlays glittered like jewels. Jazz had surely invested a good amount of time into the details of this program. Meeting the edge, Prowl peered down into the darkly glittering depths of the lake. A distorted reflection of himself stared back.

"It's hard ta describe it," Jazz admitted, watching Prowl's every movement. "It's mostly just a feeling Ah've been getting."

"Your feelings have proven accurate on more than one occasion," Prowl cautioned, rocking back from the beckoning lake. He came to Jazz's side once more, offering comfort in the form of his close presence.

Jazz bowed his head, shaking from side to side. "Which is what has got meh all tense lately."

Prowl turned, offering a rare smile that he knew would be appreciated. "Well, it is just the two of us here. I am not plotting anything against you. We should be safe for the time being." He gestured to the exotic setting. "And I do appreciate you digging through your memories for this. I have never been off of Cybertron before. I never knew places like this existed."

After a moment of contemplating his own feet, Jazz set aside his thoughts. Whatever it what that the Autobots were doing, it would come to a head soon enough. There were few secrets in the world able to be kept from him for long. So a rakish smile appeared, handsome all the more for the faceplate it settled on, and Jazz slid in beside his friend.

"Allow meh ta show ya around?" he offered.

"I would like that," Prowl said, allowing Jazz to nod in the direction they would travel.

They started off at a languid pace, following the tiled pathway around the whispering lake. Though the program was extravagantly detailed, it was not overly large. The physical space was limited around the lake only, and not only because making the program any bigger likely would have blown out the computers running the simulation. Prowl knew, with only a sidelong glance at his company, that this small window of the past was all Jazz remembered of this moment.

"How long have you been working on this?" Prowl heard himself asking.

"A while," Jazz said. "Before we left for Shockwave. Ah wanted ta show ya something special in reward for the improvements you were making."

Flattered, Prowl revved quietly. "Will I see more of your past if I improve further?"

Jazz chuckled. "Maybe. It all depends on what Ah can remember."

It was only distantly that Prowl recognized that he had been thoroughly distracted from all his many concerns. Even when he acknowledged that he was not thinking of work, of Shockwave, of Smokescreen, he felt no driving need to steer his thoughts in that direction. He was content to be as he was, exploring this extraordinary place that existed inside of Jazz's head.

When their stroll returned to them to their start, it was on unspoken agreement that they return to the familiar motions that had brought them to this point. The martial art form that had originally been meant as the springboard to their training. Prowl, as the student of the pair, inclined his head to the master, who in turn gave a nod. They moved fluidly into position, the tiles beneath their feet shifting to their weight. The ancient form of circuit-su had changed little through time, and both practitioners were intimately familiar with the style.

Jazz, confident in his stance, made the first move – slow, steady, and languid in its travel. A testing tap, an invitation. Happy to accept, Prowl met his partner's outstretched hand, blocking it lightly, turning and following through with a leisurely counter. This would not be a proper fight, nor would it be like their comedic scuffle in the lift. This was comfort, enjoying the moment as two bots who were deeply satisfied to be in each others company.

Their impromptu session also served the dual purpose of loosening the kinks in Prowl's new arm. He need not worry about the usual tension he kept while around others, nor the straight-backed posture he maintained while in his office. Here, there were no optics to watch him. None except for the holographic stars, which Prowl was sure would keep his secrets for him. Tension became replaced with soothing calm, a focus that was intense but unstressful. Movements became as fluid as the ebb and flow of the tide. When their frames touched, it was in such gentle synchronicity that the tapping of their armour was no louder than the hum of the holographic generators above them.

"Well now," announced an unwelcome intrusion. "Is it just me, or is it getting hot in here?"

Startled by the sudden voice, Prowl whipped around to note their new company. Firestar, in all her gaudy glory. Under the starlight, she was both stunningly beautiful and horrifically frightening. Her cranial crests were cocked in all directions, looking as if she had just rolled from her berth after a vigorous session with both her lovers. Her armour laid artistically askew across her frame. She was fanning herself, her optics agleam with a light that set Prowl's nerves on edge.

"You're late," Jazz admonished, stepping away from Prowl. The sudden loss of warmth between them was not lost on either bot.

"Only fashionably so," Firestar replied, slinking closer. Her fingers twitched like she meant to sink her claws into them.

"How did you get in?" Prowl wondered.

"Through the door," the femme answered airily, with no intention of revealing her secrets. Her lustful gaze travelled over the pair of them before settling definitely on Jazz. Always on Jazz. "You are just full of surprises, now aren't you, Jazzy?"

"So are you, and if you're not careful, Ah'll let the whole base know them all," the saboteur warned.

Fury passed over the femme's faceplate, marring her delicate features. "I thought we had a deal."

"We do, but ya haven't made good on your part, so Ah don't have ta make good on mine."

Prowl backed away, gaze swinging between the two bots. He settled a suspicious glare on his partner, seeing as he was the one to orchestrate this little interlude. "Care to explain?"

Jazz cast one last glare on the femme before focusing his full attention on Prowl. "This is gonna sound crazy, but Ah was inspired ta try something while down in Shockwave's lab."

"That is all I needed to hear. Goodbye." He turned on his heel and headed for the door, skidding to a halt as silvered hands grabbed him tight and yanked him back.

"Hear meh out," Jazz said, hands turning to vices to prevent escape. "It's not like Ah'm about ta go all mad scientist on ya. It's simple idea, one that Ah think might work and nobody has ta get hurt."

"It would help if you told me what your simple idea happens to be, because, as it stands, I have absolutely no faith in whatever might have inspired you in Shockwave's labs." Prowl gave a testing jerk on his restraints, finding his arm was not going anywhere. Firestar's avid gaze made the situation worse. "If this plan has anything to do with Firestar, you better start explaining quick."

"Psychometric field generators," Jazz said in a rush. "Ah think ya know what Ah mean when Ah say they got us good. The right kind of field can make any victim experience anything – fear, rage, madness. It's a purely psychological attack. A useful sort of tool in the right hands, right?"

Grateful for his sharp mind, Prowl instantly caught on to what the saboteur was saying. "So instead of the need of interfacing with me and dragging up specific memories to induce an emotional episode, the field will simply induce the episode sans the memories."

"Yes. It's so simple, Ah can't believe Ah never thought of it before."

Prowl's optics swung back to Firestar, hanging back a safe distance while absorbing the conversation. She made no demure about shamelessly eavesdropping. "And her?"

"Me?" Firestar purred, her grin sending shivers of unease down Prowl's spinal column.

Jazz snorted. "Ah couldn't very well drag in Thundercracker or Soundwave, now could Ah? And Ah don't have field generators of mah own. The only psychometric field user on base is her. A remnant of her pleasure bot orns."

Firestar shined her claws and inspected them with a flourish. "It gets the job done, you know? Makes bots comfy, makes them stupid – oh look at the pretty little femme, she's so harmless, she's so little, what could she possibly do to me?" Her expression turned poisonous. "They never notice when I climb into their heads and start plucking away the things I want. In the morning, they won't even know I was there." Her finishing grin was truly devilish.

"That is more than I ever needed to know about your function," Prowl replied tightly.

"It's not for everyone, but I like it." She shrugged, her every movement calculated to be as entrancing as possible. Even the movement of her mouthplates as she spoke was inviting. "Lucky me to find a job that lets me use my natural talents."

Jazz crossed his arms, landing Firestar with a censoring look. "Ah've made a deal with her. She comes down here and uses her wiles on ya ta see if it will work, and Ah've promised ta stop randomly deleting pieces of her memory and then leaving her outside base limits to find her way home."

"It was the kind of deal I couldn't pass up," Firestar sighed.

"And what about me?" Prowl demanded. "What of my say in this? I won't have you privy to my private life. Jazz is bad enough, but you, Firestar, is a step too far."

"Ah got that taken care of," Jazz assured. "She won't remember a thing about this meeting, Ah'll make sure of it."

Prowl glared suspiciously at the femme. "You are okay with this?"

Firestar's shoulders arched up. "If it's the only way to prevent me from waking up in the middle of nowhere again without any clue how I got there, I'm game. I've had more than a few customers in the past who wanted my memories deleted so I didn't have the chance to say they'd been with me. It's nothing new." She came forward, just as Jazz backed off.

Prowl eyed her like she was a poisonous beast, bristling as her hands came toward him. Too close. Nearly touching. Her personal field brushed against his, the sensation it elicited screaming _wrong!_ He felt the electric charge in the air, aware of the unnatural prickle down his spinal column. She was charging up her field generator. Hands extended to lay against his armour-

"Do _not_ touch me," he ordered tersely.

She jerked back, optics flashing. "It works better if I-."

"No."

"Okay..." Defeated, she slunk around him, concentrating her efforts into generating the right kind of field.

Prowl remained tense, his mind working on overdrive. Scenarios flew by, possibilities... He knew the importance of this experiment. If it worked, it meant he was one step closer to gaining control of himself. No more worrying about being in situations that could possibly overwhelm him, no more fearing a backlash if he ever had to shut down his emotions. He could be normal...ish.

"Relax, Prowler," Jazz murmured, leaning back against the invisible wall hidden behind the holographic illusion. "She's just doing her job."

"I am as relaxed as I will ever be," Prowl replied through gritted mouthplates, desperately trying not to glare. The air flexed around him, caressing gently, temptingly. Heat rushed through him, senseless warmth that had no reason to exist. Exotic and captivating, the foreign heat worked its way through his tense frame from the inside out. One full-frame caress, tweaking neural wires, making the energon in his lines swim.

Tension leaked from him. Arms falling limp, knees relaxing apart. Firestar circles around, her optics aglow with a hypnotizing blue light. She smiled up at him, one delicate finger raising to the centre of his faceplate. She moved left, his optics followed without his express direction. She moved right, he followed again. Her smile took on a deeply satisfied lilt.

"There now?" she purred. "Doesn't that feel better? Just let the field do its job. You're going to feel nice and relaxed..."

Physically relaxed, perhaps, but nowhere else. Mentally, he was in a tailspin. Panic roiled up, raging with revolt and rejection. He didn't want this. Not like this. The heat of passion, clawing wants and desires firing from deep within him – all false, leaving a bitter aftertaste. His vision swam, becoming hazy until the stars above were nothing but a foggy white cloud. Wildness brimmed inside him, remembered lust from a past when he was not ashamed of the feelings, when they had been new and delightful; now there was shame. Disgust. Loathing.

"Shall we turn up the dial?" Firestar hummed, pressing so close that the air out her vents brushed down Prowl's side.

A strangled sound escaped his mouthplates, unrecognizable to him. His head flew back, frame bristling with the sudden intensity of sensation that rocked him. Liquid heat roiled inside of him. Molten. Melting his insides, setting him aflame. Electric impulses overpowering internal reserves; bursts of lightning flickering from between his armour plating. New tension was building. The kind of tension that built into a crescendo.

His mind resisted, pulling back, drawing the reins so tight that it felt like they might snap. The more he drew away, the more fire lit through his frame. Frissons of where pain met pleasure licked fire through his neural circuits. He could not stop the impulses of his frame, physical control stolen away from him.

_Wrong!_ Prowl's mind screamed. _This is wrong! _He did not want this. None of this. For once, he was in perfect control of his mind, of his emotions, rearing back with all his might against the pleasure being forced upon him. And yet, for all the control he had of his emotions, it was his physical self that was being dragged from his grip, thrown under a tide of false passions that burned black with horror rather than the natural heat of lust and mutual desire.

"Stop!" Jazz called out, snatching Firestar away.

She squawked, rattled around by the sudden yank. "I nearly had him!"

Jazz shut her up with a hard look. "His mind wasn't in it."

"So?"

"This was an exercise of the mind, not the frame." He let her go like he couldn't stand to be touching her anymore. His support instantly went to Prowl.

Without the field generating a forced sense of heat, Prowl was left bereft. Suddenly freezing and shaken inside. There was nothing to prop him up, except for the steady hands that came to him, wrapped around him, gave him the support he needed. Prowl's gratitude in that moment could not be shaped into words, so he let his weight be ferried by Jazz, his frame propped against the wall. The coolness of Jazz's knuckles briefly brushing down his faceplate was placating, soothing.

In the ringing silence of the holodeck, Jazz swung around on the lone figure huddled nearby. "No mind, no deal."

"No deal?!" Firestar wailed in horror. "No! Let me try again! I'll get it right this time!" She backed away, hands up to ward off the approaching saboteur. "He wouldn't relax his mind! If he doesn't let me in all the way, it doesn't work!"

"If it didn't work this time, it's not worth trying again," Jazz said, snatching the femme before she ran.

Prowl lacked the strength to look away. He saw the hardness in Jazz's expression as he pinned the small, squirming creature against him. There was no pleasure as there might have been at one time, holding Firestar against her will, possibly hurting her. This was purely business to him now. With a magnetic pulse, he popped open Firestar's panel and without ceremony he connected with her mind. She didn't stop struggling until Jazz took root in her mind. She shrieked, optics flashing bright, and then she was hanging loose in his arms, staring aimlessly at the floor.

A moment later, it was over. Memories deleted, Firestar fell to the floor in a clatter. She laid there like a forgotten toy, her blank expression haunting and surreal.

"Ah'll go dump her somewhere," Jazz said, hefting her weight over his shoulder.

Prowl watched his partner disappear, disturbed by what he had seen. It was too long before Jazz returned, still frowning. How much time had passed? Had Jazz dumped her outside of base again? His hands felt so steady as he helped Prowl to sit on the floor. The holographic simulation ended with a shattering of pixels, leaving them in a cavernous room of hard metal and stark, unfriendly lights.

"Did you hurt her?" Prowl wondered absently.

"No," Jazz replied. "Ah overwhelmed her neural net so she'd stop struggling. It's a temporary thing. She's stuffed in a drone alcove right now; she'll come online confused, but she'll know Ah put her there."

"Will she...?"

"No, she won't remember any of this happening."

Prowl was silent for a while, leaning his head on the shoulder next to him. He looked down at his hands, chagrined to find them trembling. "Will you honour your deal with her and stop hurting her for fun?"

A sigh sounded, and Prowl felt the frame next to him shifting. "Yeah. Ah was getting bored with her anyways." Jazz scrubbed a hand over his faceplate. "So Ah guess this was a bust."

"Yes. This was unequivocally a bust."

Jazz cursed softly. "Ah really thought it was going ta work. It seemed like such a simple plan."

"Nothing is ever simple with us," Prowl said wryly.

"Mind if Ah ask what ya think went wrong?" Jazz asked.

"My honest opinion?" Prowl leaned away, staring up at the exposed ceiling. "Psychometric fields are only effective when they capture the mind. Even minds like ours are capable of being taken under if we are unaware of the attack coming, but only if we are unaware. We are too strong otherwise to succumb fully."

Jazz's head bobbed knowingly. "Ya knew the attack was coming. Ya didn't want it."

"No. I did not want to give in."

"Why not? Ah mean, Ah know it was sudden, but it was meant ta help ya." In a quieter voice, Jazz murmured, "Ah've only been trying ta help ya, Prowl."

Prowl nudged the silver bot with his shoulder, as affectionate as he could be given the circumstances. "I know that. You look out for me as I look our for you. I am grateful for it."

"Thanks." Jazz braced his arms behind him, managing a deceivingly nonchalant pose. "Minus the personality, Firestar is one hot little piece of crazy. Plenty of bots wouldn't mind getting attention from her. Why couldn't ya let her in?"

Deciding that he owed Jazz a proper explanation after all the effort the saboteur had gone to to set the stage, Prowl gathered his thoughts and properly considered his answer. As he contemplated, it was with great relief that he slowly felt his internal processes returning to normal. It was bad enough to suffer when his emotional went out of control. To be physically out of control was a whole other matter of utterly disturbing proportions.

"The reason my mind was not engaged with Firestar was because have no attraction to her," Prowl answered simply, feeling that it was fullest truth he could give. "There is no detail about her that I find charming, no iota that is in the least bit decent. Her frame design, while well chosen, is not to my taste. Her psychometric field might have been able to hijack my mind's processes insofar as manipulating my physical responses, but she could not engage my interest otherwise. Indeed, there is a deep part of myself repulsed by her."

A soft laugh of disbelief drifted from Jazz. "Wasn't your last exclusive a femme?"

"Yes, Evasia was a femme, though that hardly matters," Prowl admonished with a shake of his head. "She had a plethora of attributes that I found commendable. Her frame type factored little in my attraction to her."

"You don't strike meh as one of those 'no preferences' types. You're too picky for that."

"This is true," Prowl agreed easily, letting out a shaky whoosh of air. "While I value cerebral engagement over physical condition, that does not mean that I do not have my physical preferences. Evasia fit what I find attractive. Firestar does not."

Jazz's sly sidelong glance was full of meaning, though all of it hidden behind that diamond visor of his. "What do ya find physically attractive?"

"That is easy. I would have thought you could guess it. I believe I told you once." When Jazz said nothing, Prowl smiled wider. "Symmetry, Jazz. There is nothing so handsome to me in this universe as perfect symmetry."

To this, Jazz quietly gasped, but then laughed softly.

Prowl pushed to his feet with a grimace, deciding they had wasted enough time in the holodeck.

"And besides," he said as he helped haul his partner to his feet, "this interlude with Firestar was doomed to fail because of one simple thing."

"That being?" Jazz wondered.

Prowl shrugged. "I have never had that much luck with pleasure bots."

* * *

_Evasia squirmed in her seat, barely able to contain herself in the booth she shared with Three of Five. Too nervous to sit still, she strained up to spy the staircase on the other side of the room. It had been a long, agonizing process of deciding this specific booth to sit in, one that gave them a perfect vantage of that all important staircase without making it look like they were anxious about viewing it. _

_The floor above was where the private rooms of the establishment were kept. _

_Smokescreen watched the femme's antics laughingly. "Calm down, Five." _

_She hardly heard him, dancing on her toes as she craned over the crowd. Too short to see over the likes of minibots and mechs, Evasia huffed a disgusted note. Her frame dropped back down into her seat, drumming her pointed fingers anxiously across the tabletop. "He's been up there for a while." _

"_These things take time," Smokescreen reasoned. "The first time I came here, I caught on real quick. I stayed up there for a full joor." _

_Evasia rolled her sharp optics. "Go figure that _that _is the one thing you decide to overachieve in..." _

_Smokescreen laughed, catching the attention of nearby patrons. As two Security Response officers sharing a table in a pleasure house, they made a handsome pair. Perhaps not for their physical looks, for they each possessed the standardized form of Security officers of Simfur – a famously uninspired design – but the power their functions imbued, and the respect that followed, was something to be admired. Tacticians in particular, a breed that put Simfur on the map as The Best, were an attractive lot indeed. _

"_I'm being silly, aren't I?" Evasia sighed, shaking her head. "I know I am. But Prowl is special. He's my personal pet project and I don't want anything to set him back." She twined her fingers together. "You know how sensitive he is. He's discouraged so easily! He's having such a hard time catching on... It's like he's afraid to feel. Every time he learns a new emotion, he acts like it exists to hurt him." _

_Smokescreen cupped Evasia's hands in his own, squeezing them in support. "I agree with you on all those points, dearspark, except for the one concerning Prowl and sensitivity. Just this morning, he informed me that my left audio dial was seven degrees off kilter, which is apparently hideous to him. He then proceeded to yank my dial back into place – none too gently, I might add."_

"_Oh Smokescreen!" Tugging a hand away from him, she reached across and gave him a teasing whap. "Why did I ever bring you here? I should have brought Hunter!" _

"_Hunter is on duty," Smokescreen said. "Besides, it is best that you brought me. My knowledge of the pleasure houses is more valuable than any witty repartee Hunter might share with you." _

_Mouthplates pursed, tiny olfactory sensor in the air, Evasia said, "Remind me again of your value? I have a hard time recalling it exactly. All I seem to get is static in my audios." _

_He tweaked that haughty olfactory sensor, delighted with the tinkling laugh that followed. "You have a terrible memory. Allow me to refresh it." He waved a generous hand over all they surveyed. "If not for my extensive knowledge of nearby pleasure houses, however would you have known about this one? The pleasure bots here are trained to deal with creatures such as us, bots who are learning the scope of emotions and are interested in... ah, shall we say _broadening our horizons."

"_Nicely done with the optic ridge waggle." _

"_Thank you. I thought it was a nice touch." Smokescreen flashed a perfected smile that had lured more than one, or a dozen, to his berth. "But, of course, what I mean to say is that Prowl is in good hands here. I would never steer you wrong, especially not when it comes to our mutual morbid fascination with poor Four of Five."_

_"It's not morbid fascination!" Evasia gasped. "I am honestly concerned with him! I want him to be a healthy, normal, functioning bot with all the joys and happiness he deserves."  
_

_Smokescreen merely laughed. "Prowl is not the first Simfurite to come here in search of personal exploration. Although... he probably is the first one to have a fellow officer fluttering around him in a panic." He grunted when a tiny foot found his shin beneath the table. He continued dutifully without further teasing. "Pleasure bots here are well programmed, well trained, and most of them have exemplary tenured experience. There are no better hands you could have turned Prowl into than the hands of the bots here. The establishment itself is one of the highest rated around. You are practically guaranteed a quality experience." _

_Though Evasia still wanted to fret, logic prevailed. "You are right, of course." _

"_Of course." _

_She flicked a glance at the staircase again. "It is terrible of me, but I keep considering the worst case scenarios. What if he doesn't like it? What if he's not ready! It is awfully soon to be guiding him into this particular realm of intimacy... What if he gets embarrassed or disturbed? We should be up there with him!" _

"_He's a pre-program, not a youngling!" Smokescreen exclaimed, horrified and yet laughing. "You don't need to hold his hand for everything!"_

"_I should have just introduced him to this myself!" Evasia said, slapping the tabletop determinedly. "Who better to ease him into it than someone of his own cadre? We have the same core programming! It would be less awkward for him. I would know exactly how to deal with him! He would be comfortable with me!" _

_Smokescreen honestly wanted to gape down at Five of Five for such a ludicrous suggestion. "Trust me on this, Evasia, sometimes it is easier to do things in front of a stranger rather than someone you have known your entire life. Pleasure bots know what they are doing. This is what they are trained to do. Just keep reminding yourself that you did Prowl a favour by putting him in the hands of a professional. It will all work out in the end." _

_She narrowed her gaze, about to issue a counter-warning in case everything came to a bust, but stopped when she saw movement on the stairs. She was on her feet in a flash, eagerly watching two frames descend until she knew for sure it was Four of Five and the pleasure bot he had gone up with. Evasia locked on to Prowl's faceplate, searching for any hint. Prowl had yet to perfect the art of facial expressions, so he faceplate remained uncannily blank. _

_The pleasure bot, on the other hand, was all smiles and cheer as he took up Prowl's hand and squeezed it tight. A simple gesture meant to convey funds from one account to another, but this one was unaccountably affectionate. A good sign! The two leaned together to hear each other properly over the loud music pumping from the speakers, exchanging brief words with each other before parting ways. The pleasure bot still wore a broad smile as he made his way back up the stairs. _

_Prowl turned on the stairs and surveyed the gyrating crowd of Cybertronians milling chaotically on the floor just below him. _

_Evasia stood on her seat and waved desperately to catch Prowl's optic. He saw her, frowned at her, then nodded. No one had ever made a more efficient cut across the dance floor. A near-perfect straight line. Dancers just seemed to jump out of his way. Both Smokescreen and Evasia were on the edge of their seats when Prowl finally joined them at their booth. _

"_Well?" Smokescreen pressed, eyeing his fellow cadre member up and down as if he might be able to spot a change, a sign even, that Prowl was now one of the initiated, a bot who knew the carnal joys of interfacing.  
_

"_Well what?" Prowl asked flatly. Vague questions were never his forte, especially the kind formed of a single word with no indication of direction or topic. _

_Evasia leaned in, shuffling too close to his side. "How did it go with the pleasure bot?" _

_He blinked as he considered the question, frowning. "It was a satisfactory meeting." _

"_That's good!" Evasia exclaimed excitedly."How wonderful that you enjoyed yourself! I was so worried that it wouldn't work out!"  
_

"_I was invited back," Prowl intoned, noting the suddenly shocked looks on the other officers' faceplates. _

"_Invited back?" Smokescreen repeated, stunned."Are they even allowed to do that?"  
_

"_Are you sure?" Evasia questioned. _

"_Of course I am sure," Prowl replied simply, failing to see what the confusion was about. "A date and time have already been set for my return. The pleasure bot I was with requested that I meet with other pleasure bots of this establishment. He informed me that my talents would be much appreciated here. There was discussion of the possibility of making my visits a regular matter." _

_Evasia felt her jaw drop nearly to the table. She seized Prowl's hand, squeezing it tight. Shock and awe were prominent on her features. "You must tell us all that happened up there!" _

_Smokescreen's grin was lecherously wide as he said, "Spare no detail." _

_A moment of hesitation marked Prowl's consideration of the request before acquiescing to it. "The pleasure bot you selected for me was, indeed, an experienced and friendly service provider. When we arrived in his room, he noted my inexperience and suggested we become more acquainted before engaging in anything more intimate. During our brief exchange, I learned of his account books being in disorder. I offered to organize his finances, which took up the majority of our time together. His accounts were in a horrendous state." He shook his head over the regrettable matter. "I balanced everything for him. It was a simple matter compared to dealing with the finances of our precinct."_

"_You... balanced his accounts?" Evasia asked dumbfounded. _

_Prowl could not understand the tone she was using, or else he would have recognized the dawning horror. _

"_Yes, and I was asked to balance the accounts of the other pleasure bots here. As a Security officer, we serve the bots of this city and I thought it a part of my duty to help them." _

_Without warning, Smokescreen burst into gales of hysterical laughter._

_Evasia wailed, horrified. How could things have gone so terribly wrong? _

_Prowl gazed on blankly, unaffected by either of their emotional extremes. "I thought the meeting went rather well." _


	46. Chapter 46

Shout to to three very special people. Firstly, **Atsadifish**, you wonderful sea bass. You need hugs and kisses, more than can be sent through the internet. Secondly, to the wonderful **abarai-san,** who I met recently in London, and then was delighted to receive a thirty-minute long audio-review via email from her. You think writing a couple of sentences for a review is tough? Try talking for thirty minutes straights. Props to her! And thirdly, I dedicate this chapter to myself. Because I can. And because I am rather proud of myself for managing to write a decent bit of intimacy in this chapter. Prowl and Jazz are slowly creeping up on each other, closer and closer still. =P

And now, I must thank the many wonderful reviewers who brought this insane story so much closer to 2000 reviews. You guys came out of the woodwork to contribute! I am awed, humbled, and honoured that so many of you think enough of this story to read and review regularly, even after so many chapters. Thank you so much to **Optimus Bob, Chistarpax, RagdolDark, mamabot, Gamemice, luirina, 16DarkMidnight80, ichigo-tsubasa, Knocks, Dragonlady86, Cybela, Anasazi Darkmoon, Zea T, ennui deMorte, Fianna9, kathy3meme, SweetIndigo, Poiseninja, Autobot Chromia, VyxenSky, Mercedes Wolfcry, AirJuvy, quasarsmom, Guest, Guest, Yami-Yugi3, Midnight Marquis, Sideslip, Deathcomes4u, Ano-Hitori-Chichi, Nikkie2010, Anodythe, TheVastraNararda, evilbunny777, XxIDontKNowxX, femme4jack, ice around the moon, electro moonlight, AliceSylvia,** and **Guest**! Thank you for believing in this story!

**Chapter 46**

Prowl pried open a single optic and swept a cautious glance over his immediate surroundings.

He tried not to be obvious about it, as he was supposed to be meditating, and his current company could be frighteningly aware at times. Prowl waited to see if Jazz would react. When silence reigned, he determined the saboteur was not interested in his activities. Prowl's perusal of their current setting went unhindered; the hologram had not changed since the joor before when he had sat down for the meditation session. It was still the striking Paxian dojo of Jazz's past, curiously foreign and outdated. Despite Prowl's acquaintance with the hologram, the simulation never ceased to hold a certain amount of exotic appeal.

This was, like all the memories Jazz shared with him, a fascinating look into a world that was long gone, turned to dust millenia ago. Everywhere Prowl looked, the technologies and aesthetic tastes nearly comically outdated, and yet familiar in an odd way. He could see where the aesthetics of modern circuit-su dojos stemmed from, how they might have evolved from its primordial form represented here.

Yokétron's dojo had shared many of the same characteristics, such as the raised daises and the octagonal shape. The black and copper panelling seemed specific to this dojo only, as highly polished silver mirror panels were _de rigueur_ of contemporary training studios. The use of weapons in circuit-su had been an antiquated concept by the time Prowl began practising it; Yokétron had not kept weapons on the premises, preferring to teach a pure form without introducing crude violence. In Jazz's past, weapons hung proudly from the black-and-copper walls, weapons that would have been commonly carried by civilians. Swords, daggers, knives; maces, axes, and collapsable bō staffs; a veritable treasure trove of lethal means of defense, underscoring the fact that personal protection had been in the hands of the weapon wielder, as there had been no Security Response back then to maintain order.

Prowl kept his interest in the dojo as subtle as he could, knowing the discomfort it would cause Jazz. The saboteur was tense enough within the simulation without anything to make it worse. He was always edgy under his smoothly nonchalant veneer – as if he expected his master to appear at any moment. There were very few times Prowl could recall when Jazz had looked even half comfortable in the hologram. Then again, considering that Xerxia was alive somewhere out there, apparently perfectly aware of Jazz's survival into the current time, perhaps Jazz was right to be wary? No matter how absurd, there still was a distant possibility that Xerxia truly could walk into this very room at any moment...

A better possibility was the chance of Jazz running off on his own to try to kill her.

With a sigh, Prowl cast a glance to side again to check on his partner. Back erect and legs folded in front of him, he was an exemplary model of deep meditation. In a rare display, his visor was retracted, exposing the well-crafted planes of his faceplate. His revealed expression was seemingly relaxed, optics closed and mouthplates curving slightly downward. In truth, with the simulated sunlight shafted down from the skylight above, he looked remote as an island, and just as lonely.

"Jazz?" Prowl called quietly.

No movement, not even a twitch. There was a stillness about the saboteur that was nearly eerie in its perfection. Were it not for the spark resonance emanating from him so strongly, it would have been easy to mistake him for a silvered statue. Was Jazz really _that_ involved their meditation session to the exemption of all else?

"Jazz," Prowl called a little louder.

His second attempt brought about the same result. The stillness remained, somehow obscene upon someone who usually radiated with frenetic activity. Prowl was both impressed and unnerved. There was the chance that Jazz had simply fallen into recharge, remaining tense simply as a matter of being in this place. Recharge was a heartening thought, when for the last several nights Jazz had exempted recharge all together. Restlessness kept him online, urging him back upon old habits of wandering the halls at night. A rash of recent thefts told Prowl exactly what Jazz was up to.

Instead of irritation for the mischief, it was sympathy Prowl felt. He knew too well the toll it was taking to search for clues and have nothing to show for it. They were both pushing themselves, only to have their efforts unrewarded. Prowl took out his frustrations, if a bit unprofessionally, by assigning merciless punishments for even the most innocuous of infractions. Luckily, the only one that really suffered was Sideswipe, which was no real sparkache at all. Jazz simply had his own outlets for vexations, thankfully keeping them tame.

"Jazz?" Prowl asked one last time, feeling silly for doing so. He expected no answer, and recieved none. Being no fool, Prowl accepted that three times was enough. It was time for a change of scenery. Not that he did not find the dojo still interesting, but he was in need of something to help him focus and think.

As quietly as he could, he made his way over to the hidden control panel. Upon his approach, the hologram pixelated and withdrew, exposing both door and panel. Glad for Ratchet's recent release on his interfacial hub, Prowl connected with the system and downloaded the necessary program. The dojo disappeared, replaced with a temporary whitewashed grid. The projectors whirred, readjusting themselves, and then the new scene began to take shape.

A single room, much smaller than the size of the holodeck itself. Walls of slate grey metal, burnished in a layer of thick grime. There was a window at Prowl's back, revealing a narrow, featureless hallway. The room was exactly as Prowl remembered it, down to the dim lighting and the abandoned berth sitting crooked in the middle. The only thing the vision lacked was the cloying stench of rot.

Leaning around to make sure his partner was within the boundaries of the new simulation, Prowl found Jazz in the exact spot he had been left. No longer perched upon the dais of the dojo, it now it appeared that he sat upon the grewsome floor. The saboteur gave no sign of realizing the change.

To stand within the room shot a thrill through Prowl's spark, lashing hot and cold through his energon. Bracing himself, Prowl looked up, meeting the leering symbol on the wall. It was as he remembered it, one large circle wider than the width of his arm span, containing a single symbol in the shape of a trident. Despite being completely inanimate, the symbol managed to glare accusingly.

In his head, an insidious voice whispered, _She's dead because of you. _

_Yes, she is dead because of me_, Prowl agreed solemnly, waiting for the customary guilt to hit. It always came, no matter the impetus for the thoughts, the strength of it increasing the more he rejected it.

Right on time, guilt hit in a searing hot rush. Just the initial touch had him recoiling, the potency of the memory that provoked the emotions still strong enough to leave him stunned. His first reaction was to push it away immediately, think of something else before the hurt had a chance to dig its claws in. His poor defense against his own weakness. But Prowl was no longer as weak as he once was.

What was all this ridiculous training for, if not to teach him to be the master of himself?

For the first time in a long time, Prowl dared to linger on that frightful precipice before that deadly fall. He dared to look over the ledge into the abyssal blackness, into the spark of what he had been too cowardly to even glimpse before. What he saw lurking no longer scared him. There would come an orn when he mastered all parts of himself, the guilt of Evasia's death included. It felt right to face it here, under the glaring mark that had taken her away from him.

He braced himself, welcoming the storm, only to find himself knocked airless when the full rush of it bowled into him. Prowl's mind swept blank for several instances, scrambling to reassemble. Remembered guilt, locked away for so long in his refusal to even countenance one of his greatest failures, possessed a backlash all its own that nearly managed to throw him from his feet. Sucking in air desperately, Prowl shored up against the howling brunt of the storm.

With the guilt came his many regrets. Evasia, while being the catalyst of so many good things in his life, was also the epicentre of all the worst. She was his greatest regret. All the things Prowl could have been, the true potential he could have reached, had died with her. So many regrets as a result of the shade he had become; powerful and efficient in mind, a prodigy of the many logical virtues he had extolled, but so weak of spark that he might as well have been a ghost. If not for his stupidity, he never would have developed Emotional Maximum Output Syndrome. The emotional backlashes would have been a thing of fantasy, never to darken his mind.

Prowl could have been _normal... _

Hand in hand with reget was always longing. The _what ifs_ of a past made differently. The wish that the present could be remade in a better image. Longings he had not felt in a long time bloomed to life, forced into dormancy because of the pain they offered, burgeoning overfull in his spark until they formed a physical ache. He choked on them, desperate to deny them, but helpless not to want them. Lives he never got to live. Love he never got to feel. Always, it was disappointment that came to temper the longing, dragging him back into bleak, barren wasteland.

_She is dead_, whispered that horrible voice, _because of you. _

Prowl had not the strength for denial. Evasia's death could be laid squarely at his feet. It was his fault, _all his fault_, and he accepted that. He remembered her death, kept it close, so that he never made the same mistakes again. In his mind, he saw the last fleeting image of Fifth of Five, her back towards him as she ran headlong into that damned building. The heat of the moment. The dark of the covered streets. And then he saw the soot-covered teal chevon thrown at his feet in the aftermath.

_Because of you_.

The guilt, regrets, and longing were slowly swallowed by another terrible emotion familiar to Prowl. Spawned of watching senseless violence, of living senseless violence, the disease of hatred had spored inside him, taken root, and fed on the bounty Prowl readily provided. His constant companion in all things, the oozing blackness bubbled up from his spark and sucked in all other feeling. It was strong, roaring with the sheer force of it. So strong that it overtook his vision, causing him to blackout. Hate so strong that it spiked his internal temperature, caused his limbs to tremble with it, his spark to give an electric shriek. He was filled to the brim with hate, choking on it, slowly dying from the malignant tumour it formed in his spark.

Vents seizing, suddenly drowning, Prowl stumbled, reached out, and caught himself on the holographic wall. Solid beneath his hands, real enough despite being an illusion, he clung like it was a raft in the middle of a storm. He dug his fingers in until the tips gouged into the holo-matrix. Mind spinning, it took a moment to remember what the point of his current exercise was. Why did he endure, when he could simply throw it all away and retreat under the safety of calm logic?

Evasia's faceplate flashed in his mind, smiling proudly rather than frowning in disappointment. His vision of her looked as she did in Prowl's hallucination while he had been left to the elements in the pole. Her ghostly voice, so near yet so far, echoed in his audios.

_I know this is a hard concept for you, but forgiving yourself is healthy, Prowl._

She faded fast, replaced by another faceplate – silvered, visored, and bearing a smirk. Like a slap to the faceplate, it startled Prowl, and managed to remind him of exactly what he was doing: he wanted to get better. Stronger. The only way to do that was to get control, become the master of his unmanageable states.

He was not about to let Evasia's life nor Jazz's efforts be in vain.

Prowl did not know how long it took to battle back the surging tide. Certainly, it took longer than he cared to admit. Stranger than fighting a backlash, the memories stuck like tar rather than rush past him in a jumble. Bracing under his own memories, and the undealt emotions that came with them, was like sloughing through liquid mercy – heavy, weighing him down, threatening to swallow him whole and drag him down into the dark. Sticky tendrils that latched on and did not want to let go.

It felt like a century's worth of being under seige, bracing under an unending onslaught. The solidity of reality wavered, and the only thing that seemed real anymore was another distant voice muttering in his audio, encouragement, of a sort – unquestionably in Jazz's deep voice, animated by his unique accents.

_Got ta break it down before ya can rebuild._

A lesson taught to the saboteur long ago, passed on to Prowl. He had already been stripped raw, down to the neural circuits and spark. He had been dragged through the pit, and then promptly dragged through the South Pole. There was no smaller element Prowl could break down into. It was time he put his efforts into conscientiously rebuilding.

Air rattled as he sucked in hard through his vents. Screwed his optics shut. Did his best to resist the cloying, heavy pull of guilt trying to drag him down. There was no sudden break in the clouds. No exalting moment of victory. The process was gradual. Vices locked tight around his chest, holding his spark captive, only easing little by little. Optics still shut tight, Prowl did not see when the black haze cleared from his vision and lights shone again. He sucked in air, only to realize he did not have to fight an airless vacuum. His frame, still stiff, was not so heavy.

Blinking his optics open, Prowl stood trembling and cold against the wall, staring down at the floor as if shocked to see his own two feet standing beneath him. The sound of metal chinking together revealed the severity of his shaking, armour plates rattling in their moorings. Weakness flooded him, lacking in any sense of pride or victory. Numb and stunned, if anything. Perhaps a little (_a lot_) bewildered over his accomplishment. His knees cracked against the floor, taking his weight fully and painfully.

Prowl fought against the dizzying need to passout. He felt his mind in tatters, frayed lines of code and disrupted streams of data. He grasped at strings, trying to put himself back together. It was not until he was standing on his feet again that he realized what he was feeling, and the surprise of the revelation nearly put him back on his knees again. The reason he did not feel victorious was because he still felt the guilt and regret and longing as he did before. They were not gone, not defeated, not pushed from his mind as he thought they should be; he still felt them, weighing down on him, but not crippling. Barely controlled, yes, but at least not slowly killing him.

_An uneasy truce_, Prowl thought wryly, knowing this was a small victory in the grand scheme of things. Facing a potent set of emotions attached to a certain set of memories was only a single step to mastering a whole lifetime of memories and an entire spectrum of emotions.

The soft sound that blew from between his mouthplates was nearly a laugh.

Then Prowl remembered where he was. Underneath his fingers, he traced the curving outside line of the cultist symbol, feeling the sharp edge of it gracing his fingertip. The hologram of Shockwave's lab loomed larger than life around him.

"_Psi ex Machina,"_ Prowl breathed, daring the tenuous grip he had on himself. His innards trembled. Again he felt compelled to whisper the name of the cult that haunted his past; breathing the name becoming something like a compulsion, a catharsis. As if he could exorcise it from his frame. His voice was stronger the second time around. _"__Psi ex Machina."_

This time, no tremble. The manacle of the past, it seemed, had loosened its grip – if only by a little.

Behind him, Jazz cracked his optics open. He had not been recharging during the ordeal; he'd heard Prowl calling and simply ignored him. At the time, focusing on what he would do about the irritating problem of Elita One and the other commanders closing in on him was more important than whatever Prowl had to say. His interest in the topic only lasted so long until his senses had prickled, hissing that something more interesting was happening. Although one of his greatest strengths with his Sight, Jazz had fallen back on his other senses to observe the tactician. What Jazz had witness impressed him deeply.

Prowl sensed the stare, glancing back. His expression was a myriad of mixed feelings, so much so that his faceplate became unreadable in the mess of it.

"Oh," he croaked, forcing himself to clear his vents and rev his vocal processor. "Jazz."

"Prowl," the saboteur replied evenly.

Further words failed him. Prowl waited in the silence for the nausea to fade. Go figure one of his biggest victories in recent vorns, and it was something to make him sick and miserable in the aftermath of it.

"Ya wanna talk about it?" Jazz asked, unfolding slowly from his sitting position. He gained his feet, took two steps, and then slid up onto the abandoned berth just behind Prowl. Notably, he kept his space instead of coming too close.

"Not just yet," Prowl admitted hoarsely, shuttering his optics as another burning wave surged up from his spark. He was grateful for the space, reducing the risk of accidentally purging on his friend. That would be one humiliation too far.

Eternity passed by. One by one, Prowl's fingers unclenched until he could call his fists hands again. His legs bore his weight unsteadily. Finally, he forced his frame to turn fully from the wall. Jazz waited for him, silent, watchful. Those intelligent white optics watched him with strange knowing and ancient understanding.

"That," Prowl coughed, "was very uncomfortable."

Jazz chuckled subduedly, giving a nod.

The back of Prowl's hand graced his mouthplates, finding an embarrassing dribble of energon on his chin. "I do not see why anyone would purposely want to feel like this."

Jazz rolled his optics. "There is not a single bot on the planet who would want ta feel the way ya feel. Most bots can only handle small doses of-," he paused, perusing Prowl to determine what sorts of madness the tactician had been indulging in, "-guilt and regret. Most bots can only handle small doses of anything." Another flick of a silver hand in the air. "You take the absolute worst there is ta offer, full dose, no holds barred, and ya still manage ta stand on your own afterwards."

Prowl revved, endlessly amazed by how incredibly astute his partner was, and how nonchalant the saboteur could be about using his considerable talents. Jazz's compliments were carefully dismissed. Prowl did not want to linger on them, or else they might distract him from his current task of resettling his mind.

"Ah'm proud of ya," Jazz announced, as if purposefully meaning to knock Prowl's attention onto its axis.

"It... is not as if I have not done this before," Prowl replied carefully, then amended with, "Backlashes are fairly similar to..."

Jazz rolled his optics, muttering something in Kev. The only reason he did so was to vex Prowl, knowing the tactician would never find a proper translation for the dead language. Prowl's gaze remained sullenly on his partner, waiting warily for the next words that would inevitably come in Main Cybertronian. To his luck, his wait was not long. To his relief, they were not inflammatory words, but rather ones of sympathy.

"Ah know it hurts when it rages inside ya, like it's alive... Tearing ya apart from the inside out." A clawed hand pushed at his chest. A bare few fortnights ago, Jazz had been raging like that, out of control out in the wastelands while he threw his tantrum over Xerxia. "At first, it feels like you're dying, but then ya get stronger. Ya learn that you're stronger than anything ya can be made ta feel."

"I do not feel stronger at the moment. I feel the opposite," Prowl groaned, leaning back against the wall.

"Ya will, soon," Jazz assured, pride undisguised in his tone. "You'll be stronger than meh some orn."

At that, Prowl shot the silver bot a sharp look. "Hardly."

Jazz laughed softly. "It's not just pretty words, Prowl. In some ways, Ah think you're already stronger than meh." To his credit, he did sound reluctant to admit such a blasphemous truth. But underlying that, there was subtle admiration.

"This was just an experiment, Jazz," Prowl mumbled mulishly. "I wanted to see if I could do it. This was a small task, insignificant, compared to what was done to you."

"Would ya stop being so hard on yourself?" Jazz admonished. "What Ah went through happened a long time ago. Ah didn't have a choice, so Ah endured it. You... You _have_ the choice, and ya chose ta do this. Ya put yourself through this willingly ta get stronger, ta be better. Ya don't think that counts?"

"It's not-"

"The same?" A snort sounded. "Of course not. If Ah had ta go through what you go through every orn, Ah'd lose mah mind. Ah felt what it's like in your head and Ah still don't know how ya do it. You're stronger than ya give yourself credit for."

"I am perfectly aware of what my strengths are, Jazz, and they happen to be patently different from yours," Prowl said dryly. "I am not so humble as to deny that I fully deserve my commanding rank. My tactical skills far exceed all others on base. _But_, I am wise enough to acknowledge that I am also weak, and I aim to get better."

Jazz grinned, his whole faceplate animating brightly in stark contrast to their unnerving setting.

"I know I have the potential to be better than I am, which is enough for me," Prowl moderated, keeping the grinning saboteur in his sights. "I have a goal to work towards, and now I have evidence that I am achieving that goal in some small manner. I have you to thank for that."

Jazz's grin softened around the edges. His optics warmed, and there was almost a blueness about the glow. "You're in over your head, Prowler. How are ya ever gonna pay off all your debts ta meh?"

The question prompted Prowl to almost smile, unthreatened, lurching away from the wall. "I think I have been in over my head since I met you."

Jazz's optic ridges arched, but that grin remained.

Without help, Prowl heaved his frame up onto the berth next to his friend's. The holomatrix wavered under their combined weight, threatening to burst apart. Both bots tensed, waiting to see what would happen. Thankfully, the computers adjusted and the matrix strengthed and settled.

Jazz clapped a hand on Prowl's knee and patted him comfortingly a few times. In return, the tactician flapped his doorwings, brushing Jazz's back with one, causing Jazz to tilt his head back and laugh.

Prowl chuckled lowly, hidden beneath the sound of the saboteur's rich laughter. "Do you ever find it unnerving how unbalanced our relationship is at times?"

Jazz's mirth quieted, still sparkling in his lively gaze. "When did we go from 'partnership' to 'relationship'?"

Pale blue optics blinked absently. "Do you want me to name a date?"

"Can ya?"

"No, so I won't even try," Prowl replied, staring at his hands. "We are simply friends now. You will have to accept it as I do."

"All right," the saboteur shrugged, showing remarkable acceptance. "We're friends, in an unbalanced relationship. Ah'm the unbalanced part, aren't Ah?"

The tactician shot Jazz a wry look. "I don't mean 'unbalanced' as warped, because, yes, our association with each other is certainly _that-_"

Jazz snorted.

Prowl slid him another dry look. "_But_, I am actually referring to how much we owe each other. To think of it, despite you being the Decepticon of the equation, you have managed to give me far more than I can offer you. My life alone is in your debt several times over."

An exaggerated disgusted sigh heaved from the silver bot. "That's only 'cause you're looking at the tiny details and adding them up one by one."

"I am glad you noticed my mastery of basic mathematics."

That bout of sarcasm earned him a flick upside the head.

"Yeah, sure, Ah've saved your life a couple more times than you've saved mine, but Ah'm not here because ya owe meh. _Idiot_," he added in a low hiss. A small smile, sincere but reserved, played at the corners of the saboteur's mouthplates, softening the blow of the insult. "If ya look at the big picture, Ah still owe ya more than Ah can ever repay."

A pause, a moment of consideration, and then Prowl heard himself asking, "How so?"

There was no hesitation when Jazz replied. "Because Ah'm here."

Prowl blinked, his features sliding into a confused frown.

Jazz leaned forward, bracing his hands on the berth, staring ahead without really seeing. "Ah'm _here_, Prowler. Understand?"

"I am not sure that I do." But he wanted to, desperately. Whatever Jazz meant by it, the depth of his meaning shone in his optics, invested in every line of his frame. Prowl... thought he knew what Jazz meant, but it would have been wrong to jump to conclusions. He wanted to hear it straight from the saboteur's mouthplates.

"Don't ya? Ah'm not what Ah was, Prowler. Thanks ta you, Ah'm different, here, in this place. " The words were followed by a breathless laugh. "The moment Ah met ya, ya made the whole world stop. Ah haven't been able ta look away from ya since."

Prowl heard himself chuckle, warmed by a sudden flood of affection. It should have disturbed him, that affection. Instead, he welcomed the warmth to replace the coldness that frosted his insides. It felt like he had been cold for centuries, for most of his life. Letting Jazz melt a little of the glacier was unspeakably dangerous, but at the moment Prowl could not bring himself to care.

Jazz shuffled closer, bringing more warmth to suffuse into Prowl's frame. His voice was low as he spoke, sincerity ringing in the words. "Bringing meh here gave meh a second chance at life. Ah see that now... Ah think Ah'm at peace with it." He shrugged. "Ah didn't know Ah wanted ta be something different until Ah _was _something different, and then Ah knew Ah didn't want ta go back ta being the old meh."

The stutter-thump of Prowl's spark in his sparkcase resounded loudly in his audios. He thought he could almost hear Jazz's spark tapping a nervous rhythm.

Clearly struggling for the words, Jazz continued with his careful admission. "Ah have a home now. Ah have bots that give a damn about meh. Ah have _friends_. Ah'm... an almost decent bot, thanks ta you." His shoulder nudged meaningfully against Prowl's. "If fixing ya up and smoothing out your rough edges is how Ah repay ya for everything you've done for meh, then so be it. Ah pay the price. It's worth it."

Truly and deeply touched, Prowl floundered for something equally as meaningful. Before he had a chance to deliver something pathetically lacking in equal emotional depth, Jazz delivered the last line to his impassioned delivery that absolutely slayed Prowl.

"Ya make meh better than what Ah was."

Prowl's spark broke on its own accord.

"Ah won't ever be able ta repay ya for a debt like that," Jazz admitted quietly.

"You... don't have to," Prowl mumbled, wracking his processor for something proper to say. Anything to say. Why couldn't he have nice words prepared for such an occasions? All he had were awkward emotions too big for him to handle, and pre-grammed files of instructions on proper social exchanges. At least the latter was minutely helpful. "I believe proper procedure for friends is to... reconcile debts."

He shot a quick glance the saboteur's way.

Jazz shot him a look at the exact same moment.

"So," said the saboteur, carefully, measuring the words. "We call it even on the grounds that we're friends?" Very briefly, he looked like he did when considering an important deal. Like when Sideswipe came to him with whispered offers of what sorts of illicit materials he had stored away. In the next moment, Jazz looked very much like he wanted to take the tenuous bargain Prowl offered.

"Yes, we settle on the grounds of our friendship," Prowl said lamely. "We needn't speak of this again."

Jazz cleared his vents as the true meaningfulness of the moment caught up with him. "Ah've never had a friend before."

"I have. I had a few. A long time ago. None like you, though." Feeling incredibly stupid, Prowl twisted around and offered his hand. "We shake on it."

In the end, the saboteur reached out. They gripped hands tightly, both wondering if _this_ was truly the stupidest thing they have ever done. But then they dropped their grips and stopped touching each other, feeling weirdly proud of themselves that they had officially decided to be friends and absolve their debts to each other. Oddly, they felt lighter for it.

Prowl straightened up, his optic catching on the _Machina_ symbol looming over him. It held less power over him than it did just moments ago. He was suddenly determined as he announced, "I think it is time I share more of myself with you."

A quietly bemused smile appeared on the saboteur's faceplate. "In the name of friendship, right?"

"Not quite," Prowl moderated, grimacing. "I have been putting this off for long enough. You should know how I came into contact with the _Psi ex Machina_. I have been remiss in not saying anything sooner."

Jazz disguised his surprise well. All he said was, "Oh."

"It may not help our investigation, but it will give you a better idea of how they work."

"Ah was wondering when ya were going ta say anything about it." The saboteur was as cool as could be, giving away nothing of the seething curiosity Prowl knew was there just beneath the surface. "We've been back for a while now and ya kept skirting the issue."

"You could have asked."

A single shoulder tilted up in a dismissive shrug. "Didn't want ta push."

Prowl chuckled again. "The story is not worth pushing for, in any case. It is actually rather tame."

"Let meh be the judge of that," Jazz said.

"If you wish." Prowl canted his head, wondering where the most logical place to start was. The beginning, obviously. "As an officer, I had distinguished myself early in my career for my exemplary work. It was no secret in the precinct that I rejected emotions, refused to learn them, and stringently lobbied against others having them in the workplace." He coughed into his fist as a wash of embarrassment rolled through him, the intensity of it making him obscenely uncomfortable.

Jazz, rather than tease him, motioned for him to go on.

Prowl acquiesced immediately. "Part of my distinguishment was due to several reports I had submitted, most of them private but a few of them public, stressing the need for logic and efficiency in high-stress, high-risk functions. I suggested the possibility of installing inhibiters in future pre-programs to prevent them from emotional development. I also suggested, in a manner I now realize was uncouth, the immediate development of a functional mental sequestering program for bots who had already developed emotions and required them to be set aside for their function."

"Ah," Jazz said, nodding sagely. "So no question how ya caught the attention of a bunch of logic-worshipping, emotion-rejecting machinist purists."

Prowl jerked a curt nod. "No doubt my inflammatory reports were the catalyst for their attention. I suspect the _Machina_ made first contact with me in the form of a Civilian Service Report. Someone anonymously submitted one for me, congratulating me on my enlightened thinking and excellent suggestions to improve Simfur's workforce." But the memory of it sat ill with Prowl, chastising himself that he should have known right from that very moment that something was terribly wrong. No matter how illogical, he should have _known_.

Again, free from accusation, Jazz prompted Prowl to go on.

Prowl took his cue, freeing himself to express the whole story. It was an interesting exercise, though taxing on his already stressed mental capacities. Never a talkative bot, speaking at length about himself, particularly about this private side of his life, was... mildly frightening. He fought back the guilt, refusing to let it gain a foothold. Instead, his focus was on his story. He revealed the long courtship he held with the _Psi ex Machina_ as they danced cautious attendance upon him. A long, slow dance around him, drawing him deeper into their web without him realizing something more wicked was happening.

First, the _Machina_ conveyed their crafted praised through service reports. They never came too often, and always from different districts Prowl had patrolled recently. They were not overly effusive with praise, as to be expected from emotion-rejecting machinist purists, but it was seemingly honest and straightforward - of the sort Prowl, at the time very young and still very entrenched in his unemotional ways, appreciated. Soon, the Civilian Service Reports turned to personal messages delivered through couriers, never the same one twice, and always anonymously. The messages were still of praise, morphing slowly into sincere correspondence between the young officer and his mysterious admirers.

Prowl, though mostly emotionless at the time, still had his pride. He had believed that the praise was his due for his efforts. He had welcomed the anonymous admirers, encouraging them to share their views. Prowl had expanded his own thinking upon the advice they subtly offered. There had been no connection to an ancient underground faction of cultists. It was all very innocent in those early times.

When Prowl had started developing emotions of his own, it did not dampen his efforts to make his precinct more efficient. In some cases, he became even more zealous about dampening emotions. In other cases, he managed to recognize that, perhaps, emotions were not so bad... No matter his wavering views, he continued to submit reports on the need for less emotiveness in the workplace. The _Psi ex Machina_ continued their praise, slowly evolving into coy critiques and careful suggestions. In hindsight, Prowl could see their hidden threats between the careful praise, warning him not to turn away from the cold machine he was.

In the present, Prowl almost wished he had taken their advice.

Despite never knowing who his correspondents were, Prowl's admiration for them grew. He took their suggestions to spark, bringing those views into the workplace, pushing certain agendas that were brought to his attention through his private correspondence. He told no one of his secret, as there had been no perceived threat at the time. Anyone who asked was blindfolded by a lie. Despite the innocence of Prowl's connection, he knew as much as to tell no one. Much to his own shame, Prowl admitted that soon he had become so inveigled by his secret conspirators that he had began offering information when they asked, seeing no harm in such seemingly trivial questions.

But soon, the story took a darker turn. Prowl recalled the nervousness that gripped him the first time he had been invited to meet with his ghostwriters. The innocent association thus far was such that Prowl had been eager to meet with whomever showed up, curious to see who in Simfur held views so akin to his own. At first, he had only met with one bot. Then two. Never in the same location. Always somewhere carefully chosen to be out of the way, least likely to be noticed. The camaraderie Prowl felt for the bots was instant and powerful. They were bots who thought like him, acted like him; his want to be accepted blinded him, tangling himself deeper into the web they were weaving.

Until finally, one orn, he was invited to come to a meeting.

Where was the harm in an invitation? A simple, unassuming invitation to join with a group of likeminded bots who thought Prowl would be an excellent addition to their ranks. He was, of course, warned that his proclivities with emotions would not be welcomed. Those, he would have to leave at home. One of the reasons his journey into learning them had been so difficult was that contrasting Evasia's encouragement to learn, there had been members of the _Psi ex Machina_ warning him of the dangers. Careful to appear as well-meaning, experienced bots who knew the pitfalls of the emotional spectrum, Prowl had taken their cautions to spark and resisted his transformation.

He had masked his emotions as best he could, his efforts rewarded when more invitations came his way. The _Machina_ had in no way seemed dangerous in those first meetings. Maybe a little darker, more elusive that Prowl was accustomed to, but not _dangerous_. They had been a collection of intellectuals, harmless creatures with obvious interests in the meaning of being a machine. Prowl had embraced their doctrines, rejecting the Old Ways of savagery and violence, of uncontrollable emotions and the chaos created from them. They embraced science and logic, extolling the virtues of order and knowledge being the vehicles to guiding Cybertron into a new age. Prowl let their ideas become his own.

To him, it began to make perfect sense that machines were machines. They should _act_ like machines. Everything should be cold, calculated, and logical. There should be order in the world, all citizens moving in perfect mechanized clockwork. Chaos only existed in the spark, the seat of their emotions, their individuality, their _life_. The only conclusion was to reject the spark, ignoring the impulses it imposed upon the machine. Cybertronians were at such an advanced stage that they would soon evolve to a point where their sparks were superfluous, and then they would truly be rid of the taint. They would be free to be true machines.

Their meetings had been quiet, unobtrusive affairs held in dim rooms, where parties could discuss topics with each other in hushed tones. Attendance never exceeded more than a dozen or so. No specific designations were ever mentioned. Associative decals were covered. Wide range dampers made sure no one ever recognized another member by spark resonance. They all recognized each other by a single, subtle mark: a trident held within a circle.

Perhaps the most rebellious thing Prowl had ever done before the war was get that mark for himself. He technically did not own the frame he lived in as an officer, and any modifications were supposed to be cleared by the captain of his precinct. Swept up into the feeling of being a part of something greater, Prowl had consented to being engraved. He became one of them in the most cursory of ways, craving to become more.

By this time, he had researched the mark and the group, determined who they were, and came to the conclusion that the reports had it wrong. The _Machina_ never could have gone from city to city, snatching bots off the street to experiment on them. They did not elude authorities with wanton disregard, throwing up fear and chaos wherever they went. The group only discussed taking up the purity of the machine, they did not act it out. Not even when bots disappeared in his own city did Prowl connect the two. He, with his insider information and experience, knew better than history. The _Psi ex Machina_ were a misunderstood group, exiled from public society because of their supposedly radical views.

Prowl had been fully prepared to join their cause.

Only... Evasia had been too clever to hide from forever. She caught on to his affair with the cult. Nearly too late, discovering the mark on inside plating of his wrist. She'd railed and wailed and harangued him for the details until Prowl flung them at her feet in hopes that she would stop. He'd poured out everything, every detail, sparing nothing for the creature he so deeply had loved. His spark had twisted with the words that purged from his mouthplates, his tanks roiling sickly, someplace inside of him realizing how deeply entangled he had become. The relief to tell someone took away a weight he did not know had been crushing him.

Her horror over his stupidity had affected him deeply. So had her rage, her denial, her hope that Prowl could break away. She'd drilled him raw over the many sins of the group. The bots they had hurt, the laws they broke, the unspeakable atrocities they 'experimented' with; yes, they were scientists and intellectuals who favoured the nature of the logical machine, but it was at the cost of all else. Even life. Hands around his neck, she'd throttled him with a fury to rival any enraged beast. And when the volatile emotions had drained out, she'd sat in front of him and cried for joors that he had been so willing to toss away the love she had taught him to feel.

Her crying had hurt him like a physical blow never could.

Because of Evasia... _For_ Evasia, Prowl vowed to stay away. Betrayed, horrified by his own naiveté, Prowl held no qualms in renouncing the _Psi ex Machina_. In hindsight, he saw the indoctrination they had slowly put him through, causing him to loosen his hold on the morality that Security Response had programmed into him. In retaliation, he fought to regain that morality, fought for everything he had supposedly lost under their manipulations. He had been forced to reprogram himself, carefully selecting and rewriting his core data, painstakingly editing everything until the taint of the _Machina_ was gone.

Evasia's love for him had been such that she refused to turn him in. She helped him hide, helped reprogram him, held his hand when large chunks of data were deleted and he's been left spasming and sick from the massive data loss. On the night that he had been meant to join as a full member, Evasia had secreted him away from the capitol. She arranged his protection secretly, making sure he was never alone, that the _Machina _never had a chance to hurt him. It was she, not he, who cut the ties to the cult completely. Looming over him, protecting him, acting as both shield and sword.

Her only flaw had been her failure to protect herself...

"They...?"

"Yes."

Jazz bowed his head, shuttering his optics.

Prowl breathed out a long, shaking breath, discovering he was close to crying. The feeling was foreign – the tightness around his spark, the rawness that ran from his mouthplates down to his tanks. Shuddering, weak, and yet so wound up he felt like he might explode. He hadn't cried in a very long time. A sound escaped his vocal processor, something between a croak and cough. He shuttered his optics as well, so Jazz did not see the turmoil stirring within them. Useless, because Jazz saw everything anyways.

"Ah'm sorry they got ta ya," Jazz murmured, and then amended with, "Ah'm sorry they got ta _her_."

"I am sorry as well," Prowl croaked hoarsely.

It was so quiet in the holodeck that they could hear the generators humming. Jazz revved quietly, looking devastated. Perhaps not as deeply affected as Prowl, but certainly there was the pain of sympathy there. His arm raised, curled about Prowl's shoulders, and drew him close for wordless comfort. Jazz had never tried to comfort anyone like that before, evidenced by his awkwardness as he patted Prowl's opposite shoulder, but he was trying. Prowl accepted the saboteur's generosity, leaning on him. He resisted mentioning that the position was uncomfortable due to Jazz's shorter stature.

In the silence, Jazz quietly said, "You can...cry, if ya want ta." The tone he used said he wanted exactly the opposite.

"I am not going to cry," Prowl said determinedly.

"Good," Jazz sighed, relieved. "Master those feelings, like Ah've been teaching ya."

Prowl took several breems to "master" the new emotion battering his insides. He decided that it had been a poor show of judgment challenging himself with one memory, and then digging up even more painful memories to compound the first. The weakness annoyed him, irking and itching. He hoped to be stronger soon, able to handle more complex emotions, able to deal with his myriad of awful memories.

Jazz made a humming noise, remotely accessing the controls to the holodeck. Not much could be done through a remote connection, but he managed to turn off the generators. Shockwave's lab pixelated, and then shattered. They were left in peace in the empty range, gently lowered to the floor so they sat on cold metal.

Prowl was glad to have the _Psi ex Machina_ symbol no longer glaring at him. "And to think," he muttered, "I was only a pawn to them, easily replaced by the next bot."

"The next bot who happened ta be Kingpin," Jazz sneered.

Darkness flashed across Prowl's faceplate, hardening his features. "We don't know that for sure. He could have joined before and offered my designation. Who knows? I was never close to him in Simfur. He kept his distance from everyone. I cannot say that I am surprised that he turned out to be _Psi ex Machina_ on top of being Decepticon. It's fitting."

"He's dead now," Jazz spat. "Can't even mine his processor for answers. But ya know what?" The glint in his optics was venomous.

"What?"

"Ah'm glad Ah killed him." At the raising of Prowl's optic ridges, Jazz raised his chin and said, "Ah think Ah avenged Evasia for ya. They took someone from you, so Ah took someone from them."

The vehemence of the words caused the corners of Prowl's mouthplates to twitch. A contradictory action, perhaps, to be glad that Jazz had violently slain someone – one of Prowl's own cadre, to be exact – and yet Prowl took an awful form of satisfaction in the knowledge. There was a special well of hatred inside him reserved purely for the cult who had sparked the ruination of his life. He would be lying if he said he had not dreamed of wanting to destroy every creature to ever bear their mark. Knowing Jazz had killed one of them, possibly one of the few left to survive through the war, and thus dealing a crucial blow to the _Machina_ ranks, was sickeningly sweet.

"Ah'm glad ya told meh all of that," Jazz said, withdrawing his arm from around Prowl, lurching to his feet. "You're right, though. It doesn't help much. But still, Ah'm glad ya told meh. It's another thing Ah can file away about ya."

Prowl grimaced.

With a grunt, Jazz hauled Prowl to his feet.

"While we're on the subject of the _Psi ex Machina_ and Shockwave, Ah think Ah'm gonna head out to the borderland between Iacon and Axiom Nexis," said the saboteur. He tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. "Soon. In the next couple of orns, maybe. It'll be a quick, short mission."

A sudden flood of rage reared inside of Prowl, but it was not for Jazz. It was for the Decepticon pulling all the strings, evading them at every turn. That, too, took a moment to rein in before he was confident enough to speak. "You are going to Shockwave's lab out there?"

"Yeah." Jazz glanced at the locked range door. "It's a long shot, but Ah want ta see if there's anything worth finding there. Research isn't bringing anything up, and no one else is having any luck in the field. We're stuck on trying ta find Shockwave."

"Didn't the twins blow the place up after you trashed it?" Prowl wondered, following Jazz when the saboteur started for the exit.

"Yeah, it's probably nothing but rubble."

"We've left the place sitting for too long." Prowl inclined his head, stumbling a step on uncoordinated feet. His mind was racing, itching and hot from so many mixed up emotions battling it out for dominance. "Chances are, the site has already been cleared of everything valuable by Decepticons and scavengers. You are not likely to find anything useful."

Jazz bent over the controls, easily imputting the unlocking sequence. "Like Ah said, it's a long shot, but Ah'm getting desperate. Ya understand, don't ya?"

"Yes, of course I do," Prowl intoned cautiously. "But... I can't go with you."

The door slid open. There was a small group gathered on the other side, patiently waiting their turn even though Jazz and Prowl had managed to go over their time. Jazz dismissed the group with a disinterested look. His attention returned to Prowl, beckoning him to follow.

"Ah figured as much. Ya have a function here. Ya have responsibilities." Silver shoulders shrugged. "Ah'm mostly a freeloader. Ah can come and go Ah a need ta."

Prowl arched an optic ridge. "I can't disagree with you."

"Thanks."

They breezed past the other Autobots, ignoring them. The Autobots mostly ignored them in return, as Prowl and Jazz were no longer all that interesting to gossip about. The Twins were currently all the rage in the rumour mill after their recent release from the med bay. Sunstreaker had recovered poorly, perfect in physical condition but worse off mentally. He was a raging cage of feral ferocity, dragging his brother down with him through their bond, and bets were being taken for when the pair would snap.

Prowl pursed his mouthplates, frowning. "I can't stop you if you go to the borderlands, but at least promise me you will take someone with you."

"Ya don't trust meh?" He sounded hurt with the accusation.

"Not at all," Prowl assured, irritated. "I want you to be safe. If I cannot be there to watch your back, let someone else do it. Preferably someone better in the field than myself."

The extra bot would slow him down, no doubt. Few bots were up to Jazz's calibre of trapezing about unhindered. On the other hand, it also meant extra safety and peace of mind. Prowl silently pleaded for his friend to understand. His request was not a restriction, but an admission of worry. Of... caring. He wanted Jazz to come home in as many pieces as he left in.

Jazz's faceplate wrinkled, crumpled, scowling like a bad taste was in his mouthplates, only to heave a disgusted sigh. The sweet sound of reluctant capitulation.

"Fine," he growled, still scowling. "One bot. Ah choose who."

"Deal," Prowl said quickly, not allowing any room for backing out. "Now you swear it."

Now incredulity warred with exasperation in Jazz's alarmed optics.

"Swear it," Prowl ordered.

Growling, cursing, Jazz made a few choice, muttered comments before snapping, "Ah swear!"

Appeased, Prowl subsided.

Jazz looked murderous. "Only reason Ah agreed is because of what ya told meh. Otherwise, ya can suck mah exhaust, Prowl."

Prowl hurried to pace alongside his furious friend, ignoring the waves of ire radiating from the silver bot. "Our friendship is getting off on a rather good note, isn't it?"

Jazz's pugnacious reply was not for the faint of spark. Nevertheless, Prowl was suddenly and inexplicably cheered.


	47. Chapter 47

Holy shit, guys. Holy shit. _Where You and I Collide_ hit 2000 reviews. I... I don't know what to say. I am still a little bit in shock. When I posted this story December 13, 2009, I did not think this story would get so far. I thought it was going to be short and quick... and now it is four years later, almost fifty chapters in, and I think I am only three-quarters of the way done. This is what insanity is, isn't it? _Collide_ has seen fanclubs, fanart, fan-music, a fan-made animation, a couple of fan-done translations into Russian and Chinese, and some of the most incredible fangirls (and boys) I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. _Collide_ never would have gotten so far if not for the wonderful support, clever insight, inspiring encouragement, and foam-at-the-mouth devotion of you, my wonderful readers. From the bottom of my cold, black, shrivelled heart, I thank you wholly, humbly, and sincerely. Thank you for sticking with this story from the beginning, or stumbling upon it in the middle, or clicking a link from a friend because you were curious. Thank you, all of you. Especially you, **Zeng Xiao Long Sunstar Crystal**, my 2000th reviewer!

Thank you sincerely to **yamiishot, Dragonstormgirl, Optimus Bob, Gilded Orchid, RagdolDark, 16DarkMidnight80, Chistarpax, ice around the moon, luinrina, Nikkie2010, Knocks, CNightJoy, VyxenSkye, 314, ennui DeMorte, Berylium, renegadewriter8, Guest, Autobot Chromia, DaJazzGal, mamabot, Camfield, AirJuvy, Faecat, Zeng Xiao Long Sunstar Crystal, Lady Nebkhat, Alathea2, Sideslip, FIREstee, electro moonlight, Daklog73, Haag, Senna-X3, LucasVN, those-painted-wings, Lecidre,** and **sametheeagle95!**

Cheers to a brilliant run and many more brilliant chapters to come!

**Chapter 47**

_It was an off orn for Jazz. _

_A vacation of sorts, he mused. He did not remember the last time he ever had a vacation. Or a break. Or even a night he had recharged all the way through. That being said, Jazz did not remember much these orns, so another memory lost to the annals of his mind was no great loss. Though he dismissed his errant thoughts, there was still a hissing voice in his head that said he had never had a vacation in his life. _

_Considering the state of his life as it was right that very moment, Jazz easily decided that he would never have a vacation again. In between jobs, Jazz had neither personal schemes nor outstanding debts that needed to be attended. There were no bots who needed hunted, no writhing mass of madness he could throw himself into. _

_Vacation? Ha!_

_He was too bored to enjoy himself. _

_No amusements to indulge, no poor bots to torment, not even a scheme to engage in! It was all terribly boring. Too tame. Too slow-_

_Wait. What was that?_

_No. No, nothing. Just a piece of scrap falling from a jet overhead. It bounced across the busy road, somehow avoiding all traffic. Amazing. Not even a single accident. _

_Jazz sighed, disappointed. He deflated on his perch, shoulders sagging, his legs swinging idly beneath him as he straddled one of the many girders supporting the suspended roadways. _

_The mundaneness of the orn was enough that Jazz was willing to stir up his own brands of entertainment. Now that would get the pulse of the place beating! Even though, he vaguely recalled, that the last time he had done such a thing, Security Response had chased him from the city. He did not remember which city. There were far too many cities to remember. Jazz simply knew it had been colourful and loud – the way he liked it - and when he had been done with it, there had been smoke and screaming in the air, the howl of sirens screeching loud into the night. _

_Ah, the fondness of vague memories barely remembered. _

_His fingers twirled a long bladed knife he had pilfered from somewhere. It had been in a dwelling of some sort, maybe... possibly... more than likely? Didn't matter. It was a nice knife, good quality, and Jazz had wanted it for himself. So he took it. The balance of it was great. If he struck fast enough, he could make the blade whistle as it cut. It was the sort of blade a bot could kill with. _

_With that thought, his mind fairly raced through a thousand ways he could use the knife on another living creature. A thousands ways he had used a thousand other knives on countless living creatures. Briefly lost in the sudden wash of colour and sound whirling together, Jazz saw no faceplates, no individuals. They all blurred together, essentially worthless to him other than for vague entertainment when there was nothing else to distract his mind. _

_So swept away was he, he even glanced down at his hands to see if there was cooling energon on them. He was clean, for the moment, though it wouldn't last. It never lasted. The thought was there now, to try out his new knife. A wild, craven need pulled at him, urging him to seek out the sorts of wicked entertainment that had been thrust upon him at the dawn of his life. The things Xerxia had done to him, done to others, and then taught him to do to others... _

_Only those memories stayed strong with him. Clear and sharp as diamond-cut crystal, his memories of those vorns with his master never grew dull, never faded. _

_Jazz was old, he knew that. He had lived long enough to forget more than most bots would ever know. The things he remembered though... Those were the memories that made him who he was. He remembered the way a bot looked strung up against a wall. He remembered what it was like to scream, and what it was like to make others scream. And he remembered the feel of a spark cupped in his hands. Life condensed into a pretty little ball of energy; the tingling electric power bringing his palms alive, tingling up his arms, before the light dashed into dark. _

_Jazz remembered how it felt to kill someone. _

_Maybe that was why he repeated the exercise so often? If the only memories he held on to were of pain and suffering, then it made sense he would repeat the memories over and over in hopes of remembering something new. More pain. More suffering. But it was all for naught. Xerxia had broken him somehow, and how he was stuck on repeat. Stuck in the world of madness she had created for him. Everything new paled like faint ghosts compared to the vividness of his past. There was nothing new the present could impart on him that outweighed his past. _

_Nevertheless, he kept up the motions because they were all he knew. Over and over, as if by rote, he schemed, he tortured, he hurt, and he killed. It filled him with joy, though it was hollow. He would have loved his work, if his spark had been functional enough for the emotion. He was swept away by the thrill, and yet it was short-lived. The sweetness of it always ended up bitter in the end-_

_Oh. _

_Oh, wait. _

_Jazz's head shot up. Something was happening. Awareness prickled down his armour. Red, red optics scoured the road, looking for the sudden source of interest. Finally! It looked like his boredom was over! He scanned around and easily spotted the source of the sound. It was an engine, a roaring one – the kind that made the air vibrate with its revving presence. One of those high-octane, high-performance showy engines in a powerful, sleek alt mode that said more about the bot in a single glance than interfacing with him could say in a whole session. _

_And Jazz felt his faceplate break into a smile. A wide smile that cracked the sides of his faceplate like the smiles that used to crack his master's. A big black chasm that opened up into nothingness inside. His sharp, sharp optics saw what no one else could see. The weave of the commuters around him, the overbearing push of the oncoming Cybertronian as he barrelled forward. And... _

_And... at the end of the pattern, Jazz could see the gleam of a single shard of scrap metal laying so innocently forgotten on the the road. _

_It happened faster than anyone else could see. Except, in slow motion for Jazz. He was able to savour the moment, crying out like a cheer, for the sudden carnage unfolding before his gaze. The roaring engine approached, its owner coming on like a tank, faster than he should. Slower Cybertronians could not move fast enough, and so were swerved around. That looming shard gleamed sharply in the light. _

_One moment, the shard was there. The next, it was kicked up by black wheels scoring the road. Its sharpness disappeared into the undercarriage like a dagger delivered into the soft underbelly of a beast. There were so many ways this could have played out. A thousand different ways that little shard could have bounded off the protective plating on the underside of the Cybertronian. Only one way it would have struck true, finding that little weakness where the connections between the plates were weak enough to be driven through. The spark hanging low in the frame. Like a key to lock, the shard found its home and twisted deep. _

_Blue sparks lit up the road, so bright that they turned the surrounding daylight to night. A thousand tiny suns bursting forth into the air. The front end of the speeding creature reared up, as if thrown by a detonation. Screaming erupted, a frenzy of Cybertronians hoping to escape. They turned stupid in their panic, forgetting everything that should have come naturally to them; front ends rammed into back ends, metal flying. Diamond coverings shattered, sending sharp little diamond tacks everywhere to be tread over by the next unsuspecting victims. Wheels blew out; air exchangers sucked up pieces and suddenly burst into flame. Streaks of energon ignited. _

_Jazz was laughing. He had never laughed so hard in his life. Or perhaps he had. He did not remember. It didn't matter. In this moment, nothing else mattered. He was leaning back on his perch, arms wrapped around his middle as he laughed until his vents hurt. It did not matter that bots were dead, more were suffering, and chaos was spread as far as the optic could see. He was entertained, and that was all that mattered. He was no longer could barely hear the sound of his own laughter above the wailing.  
_

_In the middle of the road, the actual epicentre of the carnage, that stupid roaring engine unfolded. It became a living Cybertronian. A dying Cybertronian. A stupid, dead bot who would be forgotten as soon as Jazz looked away. There was pain etched onto his stupid features. Energon pooled around him, gushing out in great arcs and rushes where lines had been severed. His spark was on display, bright blue and pulsing erratically where the dark piece of metal pierced it. _

_A dirty hand reached out. _

_Jazz paused laughing, cocking his head to the side. That hand was reaching for him. Outstretched for him. Asking for help. It was blackened by soot, twisted from where the initial accident and flipping end over end had broken him. That hand shook, rattling. Not so proud now. Nothing to be proud of now. _

_Jazz stared at the hand, unmoved by it. Might as well as no one for help. No one would likely offer more help than he would. _

_Ah. But wait for it. Wait for it. The tingle in the air. A burst of excitement. Little bright sparks sputtering out, out, out. That shard in the bot's chest glowing white-hot in the tempest of beating energy, grinding loose, falling out. It was hot, hot, hot. Like a brand. Like the spark before ignition. Jazz leaned forward, sucking in air, watching the descent. Eager. Knowing what would come and wanting it so bad. The tip of the innocuous little shard struck a pool of active energon. Jazz heard the deafening 'ting!' of the metal hitting solid surface. And then the energon ignited, flaming high and hot, so bright it was white. _

_Jazz was laughing again. Laughing so hard that his legs kicked out. He dropped his dagger, but did not care that it disappeared into the empty dark below him. He laughed even when he could not hear his laughter over the scream of sirens. He laughed when others were crying. When they gurgled, cried out in pain. Laughed as they died, and laughed harder when they stayed dead. _

_He laughed hardest when Security Response stood over the burnt out husk of the stupid roaring engine, their hands on their hips, shaking their heads over the pointless waste of life. _

_Jazz laughed until he slipped from the girder, tumbling down several levels until he caught himself on a new suspended roadway. He wasn't laughing anymore. No longer was he bored, either. Standing there, on the side of the busy roadway, he looked up, shrugged, and transformed. He merged with the traffic, off to find some new entertainment. _

_His boredom, and the look of a dirty hand outstretched to him in supplication, were already forgotten. _

* * *

The borderland between Iacon and Axium Nexus was exactly as Jazz remembered. It was like every other borderland on Cybertron; cut deep into the surface of the planet, a physical embodiment of the ancient divisions between the massive territories. They were empty, forboding places. Scrubbed of all evidence of life; it was cold, desolate, and full of hiding places a Decepticon could crawl into.

Armour prickling, senses reeling, Jazz scowled up at the walls hemming him in on either side. Too much like a corral for beasts, leading them on into the slaughter. Too much like a cage. In some places, the gorge was wide and sprawling, big enough to fly a large cargo ship through, and in others it narrowed, like in the section Jazz was travelling now. He could see the walls rising on either side, dark monoliths that stretched, seemingly unending, in either direction. There was a crumbling bridge hanging precariously overhead across the chasm, twisting and groaning, threatening to come down at any moment.

The last time Jazz had been here, he had been on a one-bot rescue mission to save Bluestreak.

With his mission down in the South Pole still firmly at the fore of his mind, Jazz had a whole new, and unwelcome, appreciation for the haunting borderlands of Cybertron. New dangers he had never considered. A creeping aversion that bordered on fear, though he was loath to admit any such sense. But this mission was necessary, a driving need that had rousted Jazz from the confines of Iacon base and thrown him out into the wilds in search of answers. Clues. _Anything_.

Jazz was not alone on his mission. Reminding himself of the fact made him want to bang his head into something solid. Prowl had dug his heels in and held Jazz to his vow to bring some half-bit nitwit Autobot along for the ride. So here Jazz was, out in the unprotected wilds of an outer Iaconian province, with a serious case of Autobots on his aft.

His only consolation was that he got to choose who came with him. Prowl had been accommodating in that sense, except to reserve veto power when Jazz had grinned and suggested the Twins. Not that the saboteur was that stupid to let the Twins off-leash so soon, but Prowl's horror at the idea had made the joke worth it.

In the end, Jazz settled on a scout from Intelligence & Espionage. Mirage's irritation over one of his precious agents being rousted had been delicious, more so because Jazz chose _Hound_ – the only bot on Cybertron capable of tolerating the Master Spy. Amiable, friendly, sickeningly happy Hound was rumoured to be the only bot _in the universe_ to take Mirage as a lover without being driven away by Mirage's personality. Upon Jazz's first request, Hound had readily agreed to being lent out on a brief mission. Mirage had fumed for orns.

All things considered, Jazz could certainly do worse. Amiability was not necessarily something he looked for in a bot, but Hound had such an excess that it was hard to ignore. He just oozed happiness like an airborne miasma. Since this mission was a one-time limited deal, Jazz could deal with it. He'd suffered worse. Aside from field skills, Hound had been a part of the team originally ambushed out here. The possibility existed that he might remember something useful of that orn, some insight that Jazz might not have otherwise seen.

What Jazz had_ not _bargained for was a stowaway. A non-traditional stowaway, but an unwelcome intruder nevertheless. Nightbeat had only appeared after Jazz and Hound had left the capitol column of Iacon. One moment, two bots had been driving along the rough tracks alone. The next moment, there had been three. Nightbeat had acted as if he had been there the whole time.

Despite Nightbeat keeping silent on his reasons for joining their mission, Jazz did not turn the agent away. There was the possibility that a mech as peculiar as Nightbeat could prove to be useful. If reduced to it in a firefight, Nightbeat was as good a living shield as any.

Hound paused his long-legged stride, taking stock of the gorge. One deep green arm went up, halting the rest of the team. He bent, shifting his hands through the grey ash that settled like a blanket over every surface. War had thrown so much debris into the atmosphere that sometimes it rained ash as much as it rained acid. Hound's palms came away sooty, streaked with pitch black from burnt debris hidden beneath. "This is where my team and I were attacked."

Nightbeat shaded his optics, casting vague glances around. Jazz stopped instantly and went about evaluating their immediate surroundings. The bottleneck shape of the borderland in this particular section made it dangerous. The walls were close enough to attack from either side, though far enough away that retaliating forces would have trouble defending from both sides.

"Pirates used to use sections of the borders like this," Nightbeat intoned randomly, staring up at the bridge that groaned pitifully when a hard wind swept through. "Cargo ships would sometimes try to squeeze through here, especially at night when they thought no one was watching. It's a good way to avoid border inspections. Pirates on gliders, or bots who could fly on their own, would jump down from either side and take over the ship." His cloudy gaze swung to Jazz knowingly.

For all the vague memories Jazz possessed, he knew he had been part of several raiding parties like that. They had been popular long ago, when technologies had been less developed and it had been much easier to take a ship by surprise. The first jump was always the most thrilling. But if someone were to ask if Jazz had ever done something like that in this particular border, he wouldn't have been able to answer.

All on his own, Nightbeat said, "I was never a pirate, but I did similar things when I needed a ride somewhere. Wait until a ship passed by and then jump on its back and scramble aboard without anyone noticing." He paused, glancing at the two bots watching him. He had just spoken more words than either Jazz or Hound had ever heard him say at any one time. Nightbeat's shoulders shrugged. "I didn't make much as a private investigator. Better a free ride than none at all."

Jazz snorted. So the little glitch had experience being a stowaway? No wonder he was so good at it.

Hound chuckled lowly, shaking his head. Setting Nightbeat's pre-war transgressions aside, the scout pointed at more evidence of old gunfire that streaked into the high walls. Black slashes from plasma burns, deep gouges where missiles and mortar had scored away metal. It looked like a gigantic beast had been set loose, taking out its fury on everything it touched. The ground itself was littered with debris, both fresh and old. Where the supports had collapsed in the multi-layers of the wall, sections of the canyon had crumbled into mountains of ripped metal and jagged girders.

"The scouts from the outposts mentioned some unusual movements along here, enough to have a genuine team out to investigate." Hound's arms came down, hands bracing on his hips. "There's always been some activity down here, ships using the gorge as a means of travel without needing to risk the open skies, but the 'Cons slipped up. Two ships in one cycle was suspicious enough."

Jazz said nothing, letting the words sink in. Letting his mind prickle, thoughts racing.

Shockwave was meticulous. Every detail, no matter how tiny, was dealt with in laser precision. Obviously he had been established here long enough to build a lab, following a carefully crafted pattern of movement that would not alert the Autobot scouts in the area. Everything had been accounted for down to the molecules of air. But there was a chink in Shockwave's armour, coming in the form of plebeian Decepticons. Half-bits who wouldn't know their audio dials from their exhaust pipes, working here at the secret outpost only because the large operation required bots to keep it running. Chances were, most of them hadn't even had a clue as to what was really going on.

No, scratch that, _none_ of them had had a clue. The memories Jazz had drained from the 'Cons he'd murdered attested to how well Shockwave had been keeping his secrets hidden. Not one of those dead bots had even known Shockwave's designation.

Somewhere along that well-fashioned detail-oriented clockwork-style line of action and reaction, someone had screwed up. A bot did not follow the plan. An alarm was raised. Autobots were sent to investigate. Jazz himself showed up, taking his first steps into the twisting labyrinth of mysteries and monsters that was slowly taking over his life.

As Jazz came back from his own thoughts, he tuned into Hound's words: "We tried to play it safe by sticking close to this side, using the Iacon wall as a shelter of sorts. Who would have guessed they would have been waiting for us _in_ the wall?" Hound glanced at Nightbeat. "I didn't know about pirates using the canyons for jumping ships. I was a Guardian at the Tetraxian Youth Sector before I became an anthropologist with the Research Core. No room for ship-jumping in either function."

"You should try it sometime." Nightbeat flashed a smile.

"No time for that now. Hound, ya were saying they ambushed ya?," Jazz intoned sharply, hoping to steer the conversation back.

Hound nodded determinedly, "Yes. They wore dampeners. We didn't know they were there until it was too late." He shivered, shaking his head when the memory became too much. "It was hard to even tell what direction they were coming from. The shots seemed to come from every direction."

Taking Jazz's none-too-subtle hint, Nightbeat was once again all business. "Judging by the angle of the impacted shots, the Decepticons were hiding on the exposed upper levels." He pointed high to where the walls had fallen away from the gorge, exposing the multiple levels of Iacon's interior. "There's a stray shot right there..." His finger followed his mental projection, arching across the wide channel to the other side, where Axium Nexus rose up from the ground. "Someone shot across the gorge, it seems."

"They had ya absolutely surrounded on both sides," Jazz said, sliding a sidelong glance at the scout.

Looking startled, Hound revved, took a deep drag of dusty air, and then coughed it out. "Primus... we were damned lucky to get out alive."

Jazz pointed across the gorge, to where he suspected a secondary team of Decepticons had been camped out. "If ya had retreated ta the other side, more Decepticons would have been waiting there."

Hound's optics flashed as they readjusted, bringing long-range into focus. He saw the exposed structure of Axium's gorge wall, the countless little nooks and crannies that a Decepticon could have tucked away into. "Good thing we turned hard and ran straight back up the gorge to get out of here."

"That is probably the only thing that saved you from sharing Bluestreak's fate," Nightbeat said, turning one slow, full circle. "Jazz, were you shot at when you came through here?"

"No," Jazz replied. "Ah followed the border along the top and came down farther along. Even with the bots Ah freed, we took a long way around by climbing into Iacon's infrastructure and hiding in the wreckage. If Hound was attacked coming down the middle, Ah wasn't making the same mistake."

"For the best," Nightbeat muttered, still surveying his surroundings. "It looks like there could have been at least three actual snipers on either side, unless they managed to get the femmes in on this. Most of the spaces I'm seeing are too small for a mech or minibot to fit in properly."

Jazz snorted. "Decepticon femmes are worse than Autobot ones. They don't associate with the main forces. Ah'd be surprised if Shockwave convinced Megatron to borrow them, and even more surprised if Megatron managed ta get them ta work in a dirty little outpost in the middle of nowhere."

Nightbeat's optic ridges arched subtly. "Megatron has trouble controlling his Femme Division?"

"_Everyone_ has trouble controlling their Femme Division. If anything, he has more control than anyone else Ah've seen – and that's only because he's willing ta make lethal examples of those who disobey him," Jazz dismissed.

With a thoughtful nod, Nightbeat turned back to the massive wall looming over them. "If the femmes are not in question, then maybe the rest were automated systems? It's simple, efficient; all that's needed is a motion detector and a signal modulator reader."

"That fits," Hound agreed, his gaze raking the far wall. "If Shockwave is supposed to be some kind of ghost operative, then he would be working with as few Decepticons as possible."

"Bots working for him don't even know they're working for him. He's a better kept secret than Ah was," Jazz said, flashing a hard look at the two Autobots. "He didn't get ta be such a big secret without knowing what he's doing."

"Good thing we got someone who knows what he's doing on our side," Hound replied, grinning down at Jazz as if Jazz had not relayed a piece of terrible news. He went on to add his own input. "Automated guns are the easy way to cut down on personnel. Less bots around, the less bots there are to screw up."

"Too bad he had _enough_ bots around ta screw up," Jazz sneered.

"Lucky us," Hound said.

Nightbeat looked like he would say something, only to shut his mouthplates and stare into the distance.

"If the 'Cons were able ta set up automated systems, it means they were here for a while." Jazz hopped up onto a tangle of metal debris, kicking up plumes of grey. He coughed it away from his vents. The yawning dark pits of the wall intrigued him, beckoned him to see what sorts of hidey-holes the Decepticons wormed their way into. "Ah'm gonna go check out a couple of the spots, see what Ah can see up there. Ah'll be right back."

"Wait," Hound called, moving after Jazz before the saboteur could go far. "What if there's more hiding out there? We've tried to keep a scouting presence out here at all times since the Bluestreak incident, but we can't be sure the Decepticons haven't returned."

Jazz did not disguise his annoyance. He didn't have a problem if the Decepticons decided to pop up. More fun for him, getting to kill a couple of 'Cons and having the chance to probe their minds for more information.

"There's no one out here," Nightbeat intoned flatly without looking up from the rusted pile he was poking.

"How do you know?" Hound questioned, concern rather than irritation on his faceplate. "If they're wearing dampeners like last time..."

Cloudy optics flicked up, exhaustion reflecting in their tired depths. "Trust me, there are no living Decepticons in the vicinity. Not here. Not in this exact spot."

"See, there's no one," Jazz said, deciding that Nightbeat's uncanny sense was better than nothing. It was two against one, and Nightbeat had yet to be wrong in all his career.

Hound was still unconvinced.

Jazz cut in before the scout could say anything. "Worry more for yourself, okay? If the automated guns are still operational, they'll go for you, not meh. Ah'm Neutral, and Ah can switch ta my Decepticon modulator if Ah need ta." He poked Hound in the chest, hard enough to leave a nick. "Ya can't."

"You have a point. Don't go too far, okay?" Hound sighed, stepping back. "I'm going to see what I can find around here. If Decepticons have been in the area, they won't be able to hide it with this much ash on the ground."

"Have fun," Nightbeat bid, picking up a scrap of something from the ground to examine it.

Jazz gave a quick nod, slipping off through the wasteland. The first hole he found in the wall was a low one, nearly midnight black inside. Dust had settled, hinting no one had passed through in a long time, if ever. A high-powered cannon was bolted to the dingy floor, hooked up to a dead energon cell; one of the automated guns that had been left to rot when Shockwave abandoned the place. If this one was dead, chances were the rest of the cache were too.

Twisting and turning through the levels, scaling up support columns and wriggling through open chasms between collapsed floors, Jazz came upon his second hidey-hole. A quick peek out the crumbling makeshift window revealed a perch high off the ground, a perfect vantage point for a sniper looking to pick off unwitting Autobots. Unlike the first hole Jazz had climbed into, this one wasn't empty. A dust-covered corpse sprawled across the floor, dead from a single stray shot through the small window. Curious, Jazz flipped the corpse over to note the pattern of singe marks around the head and shoulders. A photon blast, an attack commonly used by Hound via his immense shoulder mount.

Hand to audio, Jazz opened a comm to his team. "Hound, Ah got a 'Con up here. Looks like ya smoked him good in battle."

"I got one?" Hound wondered, bewildered. "Well, good for me, I guess. I wasn't exactly aiming at the time. Everything else good up there?"

"Nothing but dead and dust." Jazz cut out with a laugh, deciding that a little entrepreneurial harvesting was in order. It certainly paid to have extended sub-space pockets, allow him to take up what he saw as value materials. Weapons, of course. Armour parts that were difficult to manufacture, and anything that was made with metal compounds hard to find. Optics were taken, and the energon that had yet to congeal fully was drained for later use. Lastly, Jazz stole into the dead mind and pulled out what he could, which was disappointingly little. Turned out the 'Con was just a hired gun, told to sit still and keep an optic open for any Autobot activity.

Nothing about Shockwave in there, no matter how deep Jazz dug. Damn, the scientist was good.

He climbed up several more levels, finding no more corpses or any further useful evidence. Just automated weapons of various shapes and forms, all power reserves drained to dust.

His comm channel chirped, Nightbeat summoning him.

"We have something down here you might want to see," said the agent. "Hound found fresh tracks."

"Ah'll be right down," Jazz said, making the quick choice of going the _fast_ way down. He was due for a decent thrill. Weak reddish light filtered in from outside, and he ran straight at it. Exhilaration spiked through his spark, energon singing, as he flung his full weight out the ragged opening. Nothing but empty air caught him on the outside. For mere moments, he was weightless. He was in the past, standing at the edge of a skyscraper, with Xerxia's hand on his neck, the whole world stretched out beneath him. And then he was in the present again, feeling the sudden effects of gravity while Hound's strangled yelp echoed down the gorge. A loud 'whoop!' burst from his mouthplates as he plummeted into a wild free fall.

Without fear, only burning excitement, Jazz spared only a glance for the ground speeding up to greet him. It was still a long ways down. He grabbed a ledge that was speeding by, his spark swooping in his sparkcase. His weight jerked hard on his shoulders, swinging like a pendulum. His feet found purchase, bracing, and then lifting off again. The world turned over as he flipped, completely free, and then returned to reality with another jarring stop. Claws digging into the crumbling metalwork, his faceplate hurt from his broad grin. Air rushed in through his vents, sucking in deep before he threw himself out again, laughing as gravity pulled him down.

All too soon, his feet hit the ground. The impact jarred him from his feet to his horns, but it felt good. He ached from the sudden exertion, but it was a good ache. Thrilling. Exhilarating. He felt his spark pounding a heavy rhythm against his sparkcase. He was alive in the best of ways. Touchable. Unstoppable.

When he finally caught up with the others, Hound was a mess of nerves. Optics wide and mouthplates agape, it was obvious the scout had expected to be scraping Jazz's flattened corpse off the ground.

Jazz braced his hands on his hips, unable to stop grinning. "So, what's up?"

Hound floundered, hands moving haplessly through the air. "How did you _do_ that?"

"Practice," Jazz replied with a incorrigible laugh, dusting off his hands. "If there's one thing being pushed off of spires teaches ya, it's how ta fall with style."

Hound didn't bother to ask how many spires it took to learn such style.

Jazz glanced at Nightbeat, who appeared to have missed the whole show. The agent's attention was firmly fixed on the ground where a clear set of tracks cut through the layers of ash. When Jazz laid optics on him, the bot said, "Seven out of ten."

"Only seven?" Jazz snorted, coming to crouch at the bot's side.

"I took points away for scaring Hound."

With a glance at the scout, still recovering, Jazz shrugged. "Fair enough. What do ya got for meh?"

Hound gave himself a shake. "Someone small was moving through here fast not long ago. There's no evidence of attempting to cover the tracks." He turned, pointing at a collapsed section of wall not far behind them. "Must have climbed down there, scooted the edge, and then made a dash down the center. Awfully bold for someone to just streak right down the middle, don't you think?"

Jazz revved.

"Then again, the middle is the most open part of the gorge. If someone wanted to take the risk to move fast, the middle is the best way to go." Hound's sharp optics surveyed the prints with expert precision. "Too small to be mech or minibot. It's either a large microbot or a standard femme."

Jazz leaned over them, tracing the small prints with a critical optic. "Femme prints."

"I am inclined to agree," Nightbeat intoned, flicking a glance at Jazz. "Could you be wrong about the femmes working with Shockwave?"

"It's just one femme," Jazz pointed out. "There should be more if Megatron had their cooperation, and even then, we wouldn't be seeing their tracks. They're too good ta slip up with something stupid like this." He let a claw fall into one of the tracks, feeling how the ash had compacted under her weight, how the excess had puffed away. It was a deep print, weighed down by more than just frame weight. In the uneven grooves and valleys, Jazz could see the way the runner slipped and slid in the ash, how she struggled to maintain her headlong bolt through the gorge. It was a pace set by a desperate bot, someone foolish and stupid, too untrained to be either Autobot or Decepticon.

Hound walked ahead, following the tracks. "She transformed up here, kept going up the gorge. Heavy wheels for a femme, definitely meant for off-roading." He shielded his optics from the glare of the red sky. "No denying it, she's heading in the direction of Shockwave's lair."

Nightbeat settled back on his heels, elbows resting on his knees. "Chances are, if these tracks are not all that old, we'll be meeting this mystery femme up ahead."

"Then let's not waste any time," Jazz said, rocking to his feet.

They trudged on, keeping their optics open for any sign that they might not be alone anymore. Though it might have been faster if they had switched into their alt modes, there were certain advantages to their bipedal modes when considering stealth. For one, they could bend, twist, and move as they needed to in the uneven landscape; their bipedal agility and flexibility far exceeded what their stiff alt modes could offer. They had the advantage of being able to turn their heads, survey the land with their own optics rather than rely on their scanners. While most Cybertronians would have prefered their scanners, Jazz was better adapted to the gifts of his Sight. Hound was a scout, trained to use his optics to the same capacity he could use his other senses.

And Nightbeat... Whatever the pit Nightbeat did, he did it well, and Jazz was not about to question it.

It was another three joors before Jazz and his team approached the ruins of the base. Despite the time, this trek did not seem to take as long as the last time Jazz had been through here... probably because this time, Bluestreak's life wasn't on the line. The air was stale, but thankfully a lot warmer than the pole. Despite it having been several long cycles ago, the acrid scent of burning metal from Sunstreaker's and Sideswipe's explosive visitation still lingered hauntingly in the air.

Now that Jazz could stand back and observe the true settlement of the base, he could appreciate how well Shockwave had planned out his little operation. It was off the main path, hidden deeply within the twists and turns of this labyrinth-like section. Just like in the Kaon-Tyger Pax southern borderland lab. Why break a winning combination? It was nearly impossible to get the drop on the place, unless you knew what you were doing and were really good at doing it. Were it still in one piece, the base would have been just about the same size as the other one. Now it was blown to smithereens, with debris stretching out in all directions.

Jazz nodded approvingly over the devastation. The Twins certainly knew their way around a set of explosives.

Nightbeat sighed, rubbing tiredly at the side of his head. "Evidence of the Decepticons scavenging the place."

"Yeah?" Jazz intoned.

"Over there," Nightbeat said, pointing to vague piles of scrap metal. "Can't leave behind valuable materials or damning information. They must have been coming around in between Autobot patrols."

"Old piles. This place is as good as abandoned now," Jazz replied, noting that the activity would have taken place shortly after the explosion.

Hound frowned. "There's not likely going to be anything left for us to look for."

Jazz shook his head in sad agreement. "This is probably a big waste of time, but it's worth a shot." He hopped down the shallow ledge, making his way down the cracked, debris-strewn road that led to the destroyed gates. He avoided the motion sensors left behind by the Decepticons. He supposed he should give them credit for their half-sparked attempts to keep an optic on the place, but obviously it was of no more importance. Their disinterest boded ill for Jazz's mission.

Nightbeat wandered ahead, his head cocked to the side, hand trailing along a half-wall so that his fingers left behind grey streaks in the dirty ash.

"What should we look for?" Hound wondered, watching as Nightbeat disappeared around a corner.

"Anything," Jazz sighed, loping off in another direction. He followed halls and corridors that no longer stood. Letting his feet guide him by memory, he ended up in the Holdings area. The cages were scattered in twisted heaps of metal, the bars twisted in every direction. Square outlines in the ground indicated where the cages would have been before they had blown up.

Jazz walked to the cage where Bluestreak had been held. He stood in the place where the sniper had writhed on the ground. His spark turned over in his chest, burning with foreign feeling.

As quick as he could, he exited the area and went hunting amongst the debris for any kind of clue. The hallways were a wreck, no more than a labyrinth of twists, turns, and dead ends. He tried to recall what the place had looked like when he'd rampaged through it the first time, but those memories... the parts directly before he'd heard Bluestreak crying out... were disconcertingly vague. It was a feeling that Jazz was coming to dislike greatly.

Stalking along, he could hear Hound shifting about unseen somewhere in the wreckage. Being the largest in the group, Hound easily made enough noise for all three of them. Movement in Jazz's periphery had him jerking around, dagger in hand, prepared to fight off the femme whose tracks they had seen. A moment later, he put his dagger away with a roll of his optics.

Nightbeat continued to sift through his small pile of debris, unbothered by Jazz's near-fatal slip up. "I think I found something, but I'm not sure."

"Yeah?" Jazz hopped up over a fallen door and slid down into the small slope of debris.

"This looks like it used to be an archive of some sort," said the agent, nodding his head to the left. "See those things over there? They look like burnt out hard drives."

Jazz perked up, eyeing the dusty husks. "Anything on them?"

Nightbeat sighed. "Completely wiped out. But I did see some frame parts around them. Someone must have been standing right next to the hard drives when the place blew."

"Ah." Jazz crouched, hefting a piece of concrete and tossing it aside. "The rest of the bot is down here?"

"I suspect so." Nightbeat leaned down and swept aside a blanket of dust, then recoiled when a faceplate stared up at him.

Jazz wrinkled his olfactory sensor. "The head's been damaged."

"It could still have something useful in it. Help me get him out."

Together, they hauled away the worst of the wreckage to uncover the corpse. Its death mask continued to glare out at them accusingly, mouthplates gaping in a silent scream. A piece of shrapnel pierced the back of its head, likely the killing blow. Jazz noted the open interface panel on its chest, the cable trailing naked through the dirt. His gaze tracked to the nearest of the standing hard drives, knocked crooked off its axis, blackened by soot. An access panel in its side hung open.

"I wonder..." Nightbeat murmured, turning the mangled corpse this way and that. He failed to find he what he was looking for, dropping the dead mech in Jazz's lap and crawling away on all fours.

Jazz made a noise of disgust, picking up the bot's trailing cable and swinging it around. The heat of the explosion damaged the connecter on the end. The port was full of soot. No way Jazz was sticking anything of his inside this thing. He braced his hands on the head and started to twist it back and forth, loosening the connection to the rest of the frame. If the head had anything valuable in it, he could take it with him and use Iacon's resources to hack into it.

"Found it!" Nightbeat suddenly exclaimed, thrusting a dinged gauntlet into the air.

The nearly-headless corpse in Jazz's lap was minus a gauntlet on its right arm.

Taking out a polishing cloth, Nightbeat went to work cleaning off his new prize. He wandered back to Jazz, sat down, and ignored the saboteur while he went about ripping the corpse's head off. When the last of the wires were severed and the spinal column snapped with a satisfyingly loud crack, Jazz proudly held up his own prize and sneered at the empty glare that stared back at him.

"Here," Nightbeat intoned, handing over the gauntlet. "This is probably of more use to you."

Setting aside the head, Jazz took the gauntlet. In his hands, he felt the lingering heat of the agent's touch. He knew Nightbeat wouldn't have gone after it unless it was something important. He turned the armour over, bottom of the wrist turned up. There, engraved in the grungy metal, was the sign he was looking for.

"_Psi ex Machina."_

Nightbeat cocked his head to the side. "The cult?"

Jazz tensed, arching an optic ridge. "Ya know of it?"

"Not really." He sat back, shoulders shrugging absently. "I was a private investigator, remember? I had a case once of a missing lover. The trail led to a cult suspected of abducting bots, but after that it went cold." Nightbeat frowned. "It was a bad case."

Jazz fiddled with the piece of armour before deciding it was useless to him and tossing it aside.

"Obviously the _Psi ex Machina_ have something to do with Shockwave, or else you wouldn't have gotten so tense seeing that mark" Nightbeat observed, glancing around himself. He tapped his chin with a finger, humming quietly for a moment. "I don't remember much about the cult, but I remember they were involved in experiments. From what I've seen here, Shockwave is involved in experiments, too. Not a coincidence, right?"

Jazz rolled his optics. "Ah see how ya earned that second in command position in Special Ops. Your detective skills are unrivalled."

Nightbeat ignored him. "I can assume you saw something when you investigated down south." He paused, brow furrowing. He looked to the side, like someone was whispering in his audio, and then he glanced at Jazz with a dawning realization. "Oh. You brought something back with you."

"How did ya know?" Jazz hissed, bristling.

A crooked grin flashed in the grimy light. "I didn't. Not until you just confirmed it." He held out his hand, palm up, crooking his fingers. "Let me see it."

"Over your rusted frame," Jazz snorted.

Nightbeat sighed, heaving to his feet with some effort. "You found something you can't explain while you were in Kaon. If it was something you already understood, you and Prowl wouldn't be trying so hard to figure things out. We wouldn't be here combing the burnt out ruins of a stripped lab."

Jazz's mouthplates curled in a sneer. "Why did ya really come with us, Nightbeat?"

"If I didn't come with you, would you have found that corpse?" the agent wondered, and then looked at the discarded gauntlet. "Would you have found that mark that links this place with the cult you are looking for?"

"Answer the question, Nightbeat," Jazz bit out.

He hesitated, measuring the saboteur with a guarded stare. There were too many secrets in Nightbeat's optics. "I came because something told me to come."

"Something _told_ ya?"

"I'm not crazy."

"That's debatable."

Nightbeat backed down a step. "I tend to follow my instincts. They've never steered me wrong. I felt like I needed to come, so I came."

Jazz could not ignore what his own instincts were telling him. Nightbeat was telling the truth. Maybe not the whole truth, and there definitely were still secrets that the bot was hiding, but he did join the mission with pure intentions. He did not mean Jazz, Hound, or anyone else any harm.

Slowly, making no sudden moves, Jazz dug into subspace and removed the data pad he had filched from Shockwave's lab in Kaon. Despite pouring joors into it, orn and night, whatever code the Decepticon had used to encrypt the pad was proving resilient. Jazz had made little leeway with it.

Nightbeat's gaze locked on the data pad and refused to look away.

"This is what ya want?" Jazz asked, watching as Nightbeat's optics unfailing followed the path of the data pad as Jazz waved it. "Puzzles are your speciality, aren't they?"

"I live for them," Nightbeat replied unguarded. "Mysteries of any sort, really."

"Thus explaining why you went into private investigation." Jazz glanced at the data pad, admitting to himself that a fresh perspective is what he needed. Someone who wasn't mired down in the mess, but also someone who knew how to keep a secret. He tossed the data pad, and it was caught with expert precision. "The moment ya learn anything, ya come ta meh."

"Of course," Nightbeat assured, tucking the pad away into subspace. "We should get going. Hound's been left on his own for long-."

"_Ow!" _a deep voice howled directly following the sound of metal hitting metal.

"That was Hound," Jazz said, turning in the direction of the continued exclamations. The scuffle was easy to narrow down when everything else was in nearly complete silence. Hound's deep voice boomed in the emptiness, nearly drowning out the sounds of his opponent, who sounded suspiciously like a femme.

Jazz turned around a collapsed wall just as a set of green arms were scuttling in the opposite direction, attached to a green femme who was clawing her way on all fours. Hound was attached at the other end, yanking her back by the legs. It only took a single glance for Jazz to confirm who their new company was. A flare of irritation prickled inside of him. Lifting a foot, he braced the sole against the femme's forehead and shoved her hard enough to send her sprawling backwards into Hound's chest.

Moonracer did not stay dazed for long. She twisted and writhed in Hound's grip, shrieking to be released. Like a wild thing, she kicked and scratched and screamed. It was not until Hound caught her by the ankles that she even slowed down for a second. Her optics shot wide, outrage blazing in them, and then she was instantly a harridan. Hanging upside down in mid-air, she punched and scratch at anything within reach, whipping back and forth so hard that lose pieces of her armour flung away.

"Let me go right now! I mean it! I'm armed and I'm not afraid to shoot you!" she screamed. "Put me down, you brute! You Autobot! I'll teach you to mess with a Neutral!"

No longer fighting for his life, Hound looked down at his captive and laughed. "Moonracer, it's been a while."

She screwed her faceplate up and punched him in the leg.

Jazz crouched down to her level and caught her other fist when it flew on a direct route to his faceplate. He squeezed her fist until she cried out in pain. "Care ta explain what the pit you're doing here?"

"No," was her belligerent answer.

"Fine." He looked up at Hound. "Shake her up a bit."

Obliging the order, Hound took an ankle in each hand and proceeded to shake the Neutral femme. He did not take the shaking seriously, as evidenced by his merry laughter. A proper torturer, Hound was _not_. Moonracer, on the other hand, might as well have been under the mercies of the worst interrogator on Cybertron if the continuous claws-to-crystal shriek she gave off was any indication

Jazz waited until she settled down again. "Got anything ta say now?"

"I. Hate. You."

"Ya seem ta have grown a spinal column since the last time we talked." He snapped his fingers and she was taken for another ride, this time with a little swinging involved. Back and forth. Back and forth. Shake. Shake. Shake. Hound was still laughing, careful not to hurt his captive. Nothing close to the level of torture Jazz might have visited upon her, but it was probably adequate enough. Moonracer wasn't a warrior. She would crack easily enough.

Jazz checked his chronometer, and then counted down; three, two, one - "Okay, okay! I'll talk! I'll talk! Just make him stop shaking me!" Right on time.

Jazz gave the signal, and Hound gentled his shaking until Moonracer could hang motionless from the mech's hands. Her arms hung loose, scraping the ground. She looked like she was about to lose the contents of her tanks.

"Why are ya here?" Jazz pressed.

"I'm looking for Shockwave on my own!" Moonracer exclaimed, clapping her hands over her mouthplates just as she heaved.

Jazz backed up to avoid the spray, and then looked away when Moonracer purged and gravity pulled the spray down across her faceplate. He waited until she was done sputtering, wiping her face with her hands. Dirt smeared in the wetness of the congealed energon. Her optics blazed with furious white fire.

"Why are ya looking for Shockwave? Ya know he's dangerous. You've seen what he can do. Are ya completely stupid?"

"You haven't done anything since you got back from the south!" Moonracer hissed. "The Autobots aren't doing anything! I am sick and tired of living in fear!" She swept a vicious hand through the air. "If no one is going to help the Neutrals, then I will!"

Jazz's expression relaxed, one optic ridge quirking. "So ya came here ta do what? Look for clues?"

"Yes." She crossed her arms over her chest. "I haven't found anything yet, but that doesn't mean I won't! And I've been resetting and recharging all the motion detectors I come across so they fire on anything that moves. If Shockwave comes back, he's in for a nasty surprise."

"Really?" Jazz drawled, nearly laughing.

"Yes, really," Moonracer sneered petulantly, made even more comical from its upside down view.

"Hound," Jazz called, smirking up at the scout. "Ya can put her down now."

With a chuckle, Hound set the femme gently on her feet, offering to brush non-existent dirt from her frame. Moonracer took exception to his politeness, rushing him with the intention of shoving him away. As a femme-type bot, she was lightweight and small, particularly when compared to the heavy bulk of Hound's off-roading mech-type frame. Moonracer bounced off of Hound and landed on the ground, scrambling away when he tried to help her up. Upright again, dancing out of arms' reach, she whacked her armour back into place where it had been thrown askew by the shaking.

"Figures you'd be skulking around here," she sniffed in Jazz's direction. "You always seem to be around."

"Ah happened ta be on a mission of mah own, one that happens ta involve finding anything around this pile of garbage that would tell meh where Shockwave might be," Jazz replied, giving the Neutral a pointed look. She stuck her chin out and tilted her olfactory sensor up in the air. Stubborn, stupid creature. Wasn't it only a few cycles past that she'd still been too scared to look him in the optic?

Hound cocked a hip, hands braced low. "Speaking of missions, I thought I found something back there," he nodded his head in the right direction, "but then I went chasing after _her_."

Moonracer was stubbornly unapologetic.

"What was it?" Jazz enquired.

"Not sure, just some strange readings," Hound said, his expression clouding over. "I've never seen anything like it before, not sure what to make of it. Probably best for you to have a look at it."

"Show meh," Jazz commanded, reaching over and locking his hand around Moonracer's wrist. "You're coming with us. Ah don't want any more trouble outta ya."

Though she dragged her heels, Moonracer consented to being led around by the arm.

By the time they made it to Hound's discovery, Nightbeat was already there. Clever creature. Jazz hadn't even noticed when he'd snuck off. This time, he wasn't on his hands and knees digging in the refuse. Instead, he stood quietly, head tilted back and his optics closed. His frame swayed softly back and forth, as if mesmerized by something... or he'd finally fallen into recharge.

Moonracer managed to yank her arm away, glaring accusingly at Jazz. She pointed at Hound, and then at Nightbeat. "I thought you were supposed to work _alone_."

"Prowl made him bring me," Hound coughed into his raised fist, trying to hide his grin.

Jazz rounded on him with a snarl.

Nightbeat startled, head jerking up and around. Either he was drowsy from being rudely snapped online or dazed from whatever trance he'd been in. "Oh. What?"

"Why are you here?" Moonracer demanded bravely.

"I'm a stowaway," Nightbeat replied absently.

"Argh!" Jazz threw his hands up in defeat.

Moonracer blinked at the trio, followed by a frown of utter confusion.

Pinching the bridge between his optics, Jazz looked between his two Autobot teammates. "Tell meh what ya got in here?"

"Scan it," Hound said. "See if you pick up anything... unusual. The energy signature is all over the place in this section of the compound."

Casting a wide range scan, Jazz cocked his head at the readings.

"Spark energy," Nightbeat intoned, optics closed once again.

"It's been perverted," Jazz observed. "So Shockwave is experimenting on sparks?"

Moonracer gasped, hands flying to her mouthplates. Horror flared in her optics. "The... the screaming I heard..."

"Shh, Moonracer, you can't freak out in this place." Hound laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, though his expression was grim. "Spark experimentation is the ultimate taboo, Jazz. Do you think Shockwave would go that far?"

"Without a doubt." Mind racing, but his frame suddenly numb, Jazz turned on his heel and marched from the place. He heard Hound immediately at his back, Moonracer following a moment later. Nightbeat stalled in the ruins for longer than necessary, eventually making his way in everyone's wake.

"We're getting out of here right now," Jazz ordered. "The sooner we're back in Iacon, the better-"

A bolt of energy seared out of nowhere, skimming his ankle before lancing straight into the ground. Two more rapid bolts of bright white plasma screamed from different directions, one nearly taking a horn from Jazz's head, the other nicking the side of Hound's arm.

Hound jerked back on impact, his opposite hand clutching the smoking gouge. When more fire came, he fell back with the rest of the team, falling to the ground with a crash when Jazz reached up and yanked him down. "Damn it! Are we under attack?"

"In a manner of speaking," Nightbeat replied calmly, ducking his head nonchalantly when another bolt of plasma flew by. He pointed over the makeshift wall they were taking cover behind. "Those are the automated guns. Someone reactivated them."

Jazz shot a narrowed look in Moonracer's direction. "Ya can thank _her_ for that. Now turn them off, Moonracer."

"Yeah, give me an astrosecond. I had them off earlier... I don't know how they got turned on again." She patted herself down, looking for the little cranny where she had stashed the kill switch for the automated guns. A moment later, she froze, her optics shooting wide.

"No," Jazz hissed. "Don't tell meh-"

"It must have fallen out when you were shaking me!" Moonracer exclaimed, patting herself frantically. "I had it right here and now it's gone! The remote must have landed hard enough to turn the guns back on!"

Nightbeat peered over the edge of their cover wall, and then ducked back down to avoid losing his head. "Looks like we will have to make a run for it."

"This is all your fault!" Moonracer shouted, her ire reserved solely for Jazz.

Jazz refused to rise to the occasion. He flicked her a cold glance. "Ah'm not the one who went about reprogramming the motion detectors and then was stupid enough not ta protect the kill switch in subspace."

She puffed up belligerently, though her chin was wobbling. Fear flickering.

"It's okay," Hound assured, trying to keep it light. "I have a shield generator. If you stick close to me, you should be fine." He glanced at Jazz and Nightbeat. "Moonracer's small, so I can fit her, but you two will have to run it on your own."

"Fine by meh," Jazz snorted, readying himself for the mad dash. He and Nightbeat squirrelled over the top in a flash, ducking and weaving as they ran. Plasma seared the air, screaming by them. Smoke and ash exploded into the air every impact. The shots just kept getting closer and closer, the computers running them adapting to their targets' movements.

Hound's crashing footsteps heralded the start of his run through the gauntlet.

Jazz kept his optic straight ahead, running flat out. Engines revving, vents heaving. This was a new kind of thrill, but no less death-defying.

From behind him, he heard a shriek, knowing instantly who it was. "Frag!" Jerking his head around, he caught a flash of Hound stumbling, the force field generated from his shoulder mount wavering. Moonracer was knocked away, her hip smoking where a plasma bolt landed. Jazz dived, avoiding a blast to the chest. Another glance back and Hound was beginning to turn back for her. Moonracer was dragging herself, grabbing handfuls of wreckage, her hip oozing, one hand outstretched pitifully...

Forget her! Forget her! She means nothing! Keep running!

It was complete insanity to turn back!

"Frag it." Jazz spun so fast he skidded through the slurry of soot and shrapnal. "Hound, keep going! You're the largest target out here. Get beyond the sensor range!" He zipped past the green mech, ducking bright flashes of plasma as they whizzed by. Feet slipping through garbage, kicking up sprays of debris that only attracted more gunfire. He watched Moonracer's optics pale and widen upon his approach, her outstretched arm going limp with shock.

"You-"

"_Idiot!"_ Grabbing her arm in a punishing vice, Jazz whipped her from the ground none too gently. Ignoring her scream and cursing, he anchored her to his side – she was surprisingly heavy for such a small bot - and launched back into the fray, dragging her useless frame half-beside him, half-behind him. Over the sound of her screaming, over the howl of burning plasma, Jazz was cursing a streak of his own. His blatant stupidity, her uselessness, and the bad influence the Autobots had had on his own judgement!

Good deeds were going to be the death of him!

Nightbeat's garbled shout of warning came too late. Jazz's optics shot up to see a starburst of bright bright white whistling straight for them. No time to duck or run. Acting on immediate instinct, the saboteur did something that topped all of his stupidity so far. He shoved Moonracer to the ground and threw himself on top of her, becoming a Primus-damned a living shield.

Gritting his jaw, Jazz refused to cry out when the attack hit. He felt his armour melting, imploding inward from the heat and force of impact. Energon surged, but had no chance to ignite when the heat of the plasma cauterized his polymer lines. For a split astrosecond, Jazz felt air and heat flare up his exposed spinal column at the base of his back. Fire filled his frame, frizzing out neural circuits and overloading his processor.

And then he was numb, falling into the blackness of oblivion.

_Rapid reboot program initializing... Initializing... Running Diagnostics... Calculating... Calculating... _

Jazz snapped back to consciousness just as a bump in the road jammed into his front bumper and made his processor ring. Pain throbbed from one end of his frame to the other.

"What the fr-"

"He's online!" Moonracer exclaimed, her alt mode swerving at his side. "Jazz, how do you feel? That was an incredibly stupid thing you did back there! For an astrosecond, I thought you were dead."

Wanting to give his head a shake, Jazz found that he had no head at the moment. Or arms. Or legs. Someone had forced him into alt mode. Definitely had been forced, or else his trans-cogs would not be feeling so stripped. Everything was sore... except for his back end. He couldn't feel his back end. And yet, despite not being able to feel it, Jazz knew that it was currently lifted into the air at an angle truly unbecoming of a bot of his dignity. Hound was ahead of him, acting as the designated tow.

"What. Happened." Jazz bit out hoarsely.

Nightbeat cut around to Jazz's other side, also in alt mode. "You took a plasma blast to the back," he explained. "It must have hit in just the right place, because it cut through your armour and severed your spinal column."

That explained the numbness. "Slag."

"I had to go back for both of you," Hound said, sounding jovial rather than put out. "Just about killed my energy reserves extending my force field, but at least we got you out in one piece."

Jazz muttered something foul.

"Moonracer had a look at your back as soon as we were able to get a safe distance away, said it's pretty bad. Ratchet should be able to rewire it when we get back to base." Nightbeat paused, bumping along quietly on the deserted road. "We thought the electrical surge fried your processor. You're lucky you're alive."

Jazz growled lowly. "You were stupid ta come back for meh. Should have left meh."

Hound guffawed loudly. "No way in the pit. Aside from the fact that Prowl would _kill_ us, you're one of us now. You risk your neck for us, so we risk ours."

Jazz silently fumed, humiliated, ignoring the detritus that got snugged up in his undercarriage. Moonracer stayed by his side, even after Nightbeat left to take point. She stuck close, silent but nervous. The creature who had gotten him into yet another ridiculous mess.

"Moonracer," he murmured.

"Yes?" She inched closer, sounding very much like all was forgiven between them.

Without warning, Jazz wrenched his front wheels and sent himself veering into the femme, throwing her across the road. The crash echoed loudly, sparks flying. Pain seared up Jazz's frame, flaying him from the inside out. Bit and pieces of him flew free, but extra damage was worth it to watch her get ditched.

Hound threw on his brakes, screeching to a halt. Nightbeat puttered to a halt, idling quietly.

Moonracer was on her feet a moment later, sputtering and bewildered. "What was that for?!"

"This is the _last_ time Ah'm saving your sorry aft," Jazz snarled, wishing he didn't look so ridiculous in alt mode with his aft hiked in the air. "When we get back to base, either ya march your aft into Optimus Prime's office and beg ta take the oath or Ah'm gonna kill ya. Ah mean it, Moonracer. Ah'll kill ya."

Moonracer immediately puffed up, an obstinate scowl marring her features. Then she looked at Jazz. _Really_ looked at him. The monster himself who was supposed to be sparkless, barely sane; he'd saved her life twice now, and even flew all the way down south just because she was concerned for the Neutrals down there. He was hurt, paralyzed from the waist down, and fuming like a wild animal. For everything he had ever done for her, he had never asked for anything in return, except for...

Her stubbornness deflated, optics averted. She collapsed into her alt mode and crawled up alongside him. "Okay, I'll take the oath."

Jazz bristled, resisting the hint of relief that flittered through his battered system. He summed up enough ire to bite out, "Good. You'll be Elita One's problem from now on. Not mine."


End file.
